Apply Liberally at Sunrise
by Antje
Summary: Shawn and Carlton try to get along well, but not too well, to solve a perplexing mystery, just after Gus and Juliet's marriage. SS/CL, BG/JO
1. Part the First

**Title**: Apply Liberally at Sunrise  
**Fandom**: Psych (post-series, I'm guessing, or at least way ahead of season four)  
**Characters/Pairings**: Shawn and Carlton (UST); Gus x Juliet (established)  
**Rating**: Teen+ for television-style swears and readability  
**Disclaimer**: Psych is owned by NBC Universal Television and several other production companies, none of which I am affiliated with.

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Part the First

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Darkness swirled around Shawn. It was far more preferable, he acknowledged, than anything else. If he had had his way, he'd rather rise from fitful sleep near a vat of something sweet and sticky. Caramel sauce or fresh-from-the-stove raspberry sauce. What was the French for raspberry? A word he'd come across once, or heard repeatedly during dozes in the office with the television on the Food Network. Frah-bwah, it sounded like. But he spelled it out in his head, _framboise_. Right, that was it. Fram from Boise. _To blow a raspberry:_ faire un bruit de pet… He didn't know French—did not want to know it—but he'd picked up so much useless information that he was thinking of wrangling Gus into writing a book of their cumulative intelligence prowess. They could slap a ridiculous title on it. Like _The Book of Inactive Reasoning and Yummy Raspberry Sauce_. It could be like one of those projects they did when they were ten years old and all the world stood still and they'd never grow up…

He thought these things before opening his eyes.

Then, instead of listening to himself ramble on in the mad rush of morning's seductive activity, he listened to the stagnancy of Lassie's place. Shawn preferred this new, smaller house. Much more suited to a man of Lassie's—what was the phrase? Utter emptiness. Loneliness? No, something more confining. Loneliness was so expansive. Lassie was not so infinite.

The back door opened before the word appeared to him.

"Lock it, Lassie," he murmured, steeling his eyes shut against the inevitable. He knew what day it was, Saturday, but didn't want to think about it. How easier it was, now, at that God-awful hour of the morning, to predict the movements of Carlton Lassiter. He only knew Lassie put the bolt lock back in place because of the clank of shoe sole against the bottom of the door: the door was one of those fickle, slightly warped old things that required extra attention if, in fact, you wanted to do something as ridiculous as lock it.

Six steps. Turn. Out of the kitchen. Two loud steps on bare floorboards. One missed step lost in the softness of the throw rug in the living room. Six more loud steps. Two missed: Lassie crossed the hallway rug, an ugly beast so intoxicated with dirt that Shawn had first joked it was Lassie's bed. Get it? Dirty dog, dirty floor rug, and—yeah. Lassie hadn't gotten it either. In truth, Shawn had never met anyone cleaner. He didn't care how much lavender oil Gus had once rubbed into his shapely chocolate-egg-at-Easter head. Even as Lassie entered the spare room there was that collection of now infamous odours: after shave and shampoo—the good stuff today, not the cheap stuff—shoe polish and gun oil—God he was not going to let Lassie wear his piece all freakin' day—and something else elite and unusual that always hovered in Lassie's aromatic wake.

Shawn opened his eyes. Carlton flinched a little. How did Shawn do that, anyway? Open his eyes so that, without moving them even a bit, they were directly on his own eyes. Fastened there as though kept on a short tether. It unnerved. He set his lips against his teeth, feeling vulgar feelings, and extended his hand anew. Shawn inhaled, taking the takeaway cup, but disfavored speaking for sipping a cold liquid through a straw. The dark ruined its contents. He didn't know what he'd expected, but started hacking and coughing.

"It's—too early for you to—" Shawn felt the crinkles of liquid lodged in his windpipe. "Oh God—it burns us, Lassie!—for you to kill me!"

"Sorry," though it was an unpleasantness, hearing Carlton apologize for an act not his fault. He was, like Shawn, full of a morose bouquet. And only in a handful of hours would it leave them.

Shawn lay back on the pillows, three of them—he'd taken one from Lassie's bed in the middle of the—evening, because it wasn't exactly night. He rubbed his sternum to get rid of the poisonous serum. Shooting Lassie a bland look that transformed to accusatory, Shawn lifted the beverage.

"What the hell is this?"

"Iced espresso," Carlton said. 'Seven shots. No sugar. No cream. Nothing. Just ice. At least,' he frowned for a moment, "I think that's what I ordered."

"My God, man, you are an elephant at remembering these things!"

"Right," he murmured, too quietly that he was rather positive even Shawn had missed it. He itched his ear, nervously, nursing paranoia and a desire to get this finished. An actual ending. Wouldn't it be something?

"What time is it?" Shawn tried to answer his own question, finding Lassiter could be unreliable from time to time. He reached for his phone on the bedside cabinet. It wasn't there, and the little battery-operated travel clock was useless to read in a room full of wan Santa Barbara street light.

"About four-thirty."

Shawn found his iPhone buried between luxurious pillow crevices. Its display gave a gaudy reading: 4:34 AM. He could only see it through one eye, like Cyclops, so bright was the screen. He preferred hearing it from Lassiter, and shoved the iPhone back between pillowy mountains. After a second sip of his drink, he pulled a face, lolled his tongue, made a rude noise.

"This makes my whole mouth feel as hairy as Alec Baldwin's classy moobs."

"Charming. It'll keep you awake."

"At least until nine in the morning, then I might be able to go back to sleep…" He wasn't aware, really, that he'd said it aloud. And far more proud of both of them for not following it up with an undignified statement, a tease about the morning's approaching epoch.

Shawn made another face and squeezed his tongue tip between his teeth. "Seriously, I think my tongue is getting woollier. Is that a word, woollier? Woollierest? Woolly. I never noticed it before, but words are absolutely ridiculous at four-thirty in the morning. Back me up on this, Lassie."

Lassiter quite agreed, especially when they came out of Shawn's mouth, like vapid, plagued peasants sporting malaria and uncommon, incurable diseases. "Here." He grabbed Shawn's drink, put his drink in Shawn's empty fingers, and, with a nod, headed for the doorway. It was not innate machismo that let Carlton slurp the iced espresso without so much as a cringe. He watched Shawn take a test sip of the hot beverage. After smacking his lips a couple of times, Shawn approved.

"Is that hazelnut I taste?"

"Hazelnut latte."

"Lassie," Shawn said in his affectionate, startled, soft mocking voice, "that isn't like you."

"Just drink it, Spencer. And get in the shower, would you? The sooner you get dressed, the sooner we can get over there and get this done with."

"Absolutely," Shawn said, 'since I'm sure they're going to hold up the entire wedding until I get there.'

"You are the best man."

"And what are you? We were never really sure of that. Matron of honor? Are you wearing pumps? Enquiring minds want to know! This is starting to grow on me." He spoke of the latte, not the idea of Lassiter in pumps. He wagged a hand at Lassie's ensemble. "Jimmy Choo makes a delectable three-inch pump in leopard print that might just make that tie look somewhat decent. Please tell me you're not wearing that."

"Just—hurry up." He scowled, sipped his espresso, and started turning away.

"This is ridiculous, man!" Shawn shouted, pounding a fist into the mattress. "Who gets married at sunrise, anyway?"

"Get in the shower, Spencer, before I throw you in!"

This came from somewhere in the living room. Shawn's eyes tightened, wanting to blame Lassiter for this ordeal, this incredible, senseless mayhem. He hated these twisting feelings: one part happiness mixed with disbelief and jealousy and despair.

"I'm going to kill Gus for this!" he cried, making sure it was loud enough for Lassie to hear.

What came was an unexpected retort.

"Not if I kill him and O'Hara first!"

Shawn, filled with melancholy, rolled from the mattress. Hanging on the back of the door was his damn suit. "Dude," he reflected aloud to himself, as though Gus stood right there, "I'm so going to look like Sonny Crockett in this thing."

Lassie's head popped between door and frame. It caught Shawn off his guard, usually so high and impenetrable around Lassiter anyway. "Put it on."

"Do you mean before or after the shower? Never mind. Just—just never mind." Shawn was through with the chatter like old bitties, the bickering like long-time lovers, and parted Lassiter out of his way, holding nothing more than clean boxers and white undershirt. He was a few steps away before he recalled the taste of hazelnut, missed the latte, and went back for it. Lassie held it out to him. "I'm drinking this in the shower," said Shawn in his heroic bravado, "and don't try stopping me. And if I have to tinkle at any time through the marriage ceremony, then that's the way it's gotta be. Gus and Jules will understand." He nodded, adding a fitting end to his speech. "Good-bye, Carlton."

Only after Shawn had turned the corner did Carlton dare smile. Shawn would, of course, do something like that at his best friend's wedding. They were probably the two people in the world who shouldn't go to Gus and Juliet's wedding, for all the antics they could pull, and all the rowdiness of simmering emotions; but they were, of course, the two people Gus and Juliet wanted there, more than anyone else, no matter what hour of the day it occurred.

Water whined through pipes as the shower started, and, assured of Spencer's being ensconced in hot spray, Carlton dialed O'Hara. She answered, sounding breathless, joyful, and too cheery for that incredible hour of the morning.

"Carlton, is he up? Gus has been pacing, waiting to hear one way or another. If Shawn's—"

"Wait, you've seen Guster?"

"He's right here."

"So much for traditions of the bride and groom separated before the ceremony."

"We're not that superstitious. And we have way too much to do. Is he awake?" Juliet looked across the room to the window, a glare of silver, the freshest beginnings of morning, pouring around the cut-out of Gus. "Please tell me that we didn't haul him, with you kicking and screaming, to your house just to have you—"

"He's in the shower," Lassiter answered, rubbing his brow and flicking away a speck of dry skin, bothering to sniff as though miffed that O'Hara hadn't trusted him. "I think he was already up when I came in with coffee."

"Seven shots of espresso, like Gus ordered?"

"He wouldn't drink it. I gave him my hazelnut latte."

"A flavored latte? You?" Juliet repeated, this little puzzle reaching Gus, whose eyes lit up. "That's not like you, Carlton."

"We can discuss the changeability of my drinking habits later. He's awake. We'll be there."

Juliet half-heard while Gus tugged at her arm and, hardly audible, whispered to ask Lassiter something on his behalf. "One small favor before you pack him into the car."

"You want me to gag him and put him in cuffs? Because I can do that. As it is, O'Hara, I have to have the whole house disinfected because he was here."

"Shawn's been to your house lots of times."

"But never for twelve hours."

"He helped you move in. He found someone who bought your old house."

"Do you think Target will have Pine Sol on sale this week?"

"Carlton! It was _one_ night! And how else were we going to get him here? Shawn's dad was staying with the Gusters up here for the night, and—"

"What's the favor? I'm going to assume, with the way the day's gone so far, that it isn't something as jolly as gagging and cuffing Spencer."

Juliet waited for a moment, blinking away the rough images of Carlton and Shawn entangled in the throes of hatred. Like she'd discovered through the years as Lassiter's partner, he was the sort whose bark was worse than his bite, regardless of his ferocity. Shawn, on the other hand, adored the beloved "Lassie" and hadn't, inasmuch as Gus was able to tell her, ever hated Lassiter. It was difficult for Shawn to hate anyone: He was too fascinated by peoples' idiosyncrasies and his own self-centered, puerile understanding of them.

In the end, however, Juliet lifted her gaze to Gus, saw support there, that came to when he lifted his hand to her shoulder, pressed his lips to that warm space above her ear. She closed her eyes, now knowing the favor she wanted was too silly, and she too embarrassed to ask for it. She made up something, something of interest that was, in truth, as important to her as asking him to be nice to Shawn during the drive.

"Carlton, just leave your gun at home, would you?"

After a faint chuckle, Gus delivered near the mouthpiece: "It won't be lonely with the half-dozen or so you've already got hidden around your place, will it?"

The faint hissing of the shower stopped, and in a matter of minutes he'd have to hurl Spencer into the Crown Victoria, sans cuffs and gag. The degree of O'Hara's request barely fazed him, but for other reasons he ran fingertips across his tired, burning eyes. The espresso hadn't hit him yet. Or it'd hit him in some other way, perhaps sufficiently explaining why his insides felt chewed to bits and rolling like angry waves.

"Fine," he answered. "It stays."

"I'm going to pat you down when you get here," responded Juliet, "just so you know. Or I might even ask Shawn to do it for me." She and Gus high-fived at her joke.

The bathroom door opened, pluming into the hallway faint odors of body wash, wet ceramic tile, and California's treated water.

"Gotta go," delivered Lassiter, ending the call before Spencer, ever curious, descended the corridor and inspected what he saw there.

"You look conspicuous." Shawn held his fingertips to the side of his head, lowered his eyes, the definition of his standard position of pretend. "I sense you're hiding something."

"Of course I am. Do you think I tell you all my secrets?"

"Is it a pair of teal nylon and Spandex bikini briefs, by chance?"

"What? No."

From his other hand, Shawn held up the adduced pair of briefs, hanging, swinging delicately, shimmering a little in the lamplight, from the crook of his forefinger. "That's too bad. It begs the question, now, about the owner of these. Belong to a friend of yours?"

"Spencer."

"More than a friend? I'm hoping a swimsuit model from Bulgaria named Vlad. But I digress. I feel that they are lost and require immediate return. I shouldn't want someone to roam about Santa Barbara without lavish underpants, Lassie, for I believe that is against the law. And if it isn't—it should be—" he ran a cursory inspection up and down Lassiter, "for some people."

Carlton knew that Shawn knew. There was no use in hiding anything, really. But, in spite of their mutual ascension into awareness of briefs' ownership, Carlton wouldn't take them. He'd left them in the bathroom after groggily showering around 3:45 that morning. With an eyebrow raised speculatively, Shawn swung his forearm, teetering the briefs, but wrenching around.

"I'll put them in the dirty briefs hamper in your room, sweetie, and perhaps they'll sprout a pair of sexy legs and wander back to their owner eventually, freshly laundered and smelling like Peach Blossom Swirl Snuggle softness."

Which was, naturally, the exact same fabric softener sitting on the shelf above Carlton's dryer. As Shawn vanished into the shadowy dim of Carlton's bedroom, likely doing what he said he would, Carlton briskly stepped away. He checked the car, put new bottles of water and two bottles of cranberry juice on the floor in front of the passenger's seat. It would take them nearly two hours to reach the resort. They had to leave by five. If Spencer wasn't ready in six minutes…

But just as he returned to the house in order to hurry Shawn along, he came striding into the living room in his pale linen suit, the loose-fitting jacket over a pastel blue t-shirt.

"James 'Sonny' Crockett," Shawn said at once, making sure his jacket sleeves were secure against his elbows, "that's what you're thinking."

Carlton made some noise between pressed lips, like a sizzle that was clearly a held-in piece of laughter. "He's making you wear that? Really?"

"Yeah, Lassie, really. And don't you dare hate on Gus's dream of an eighties-theme wedding. At least," Shawn loped his gaze into the space of thought, "I hoped that's what he was doing. But we were so busy with that last case—and the one before that—and the one before _that_—we hardly knew what was planned… Time to go?" He said it quickly in case his emotions went limp again. This couldn't be happening, really. Surely he and Gus were still ten and merely meeting at a secret tree house built in a secret location between Morro Bay and Santa Barbara. Only now they would allow in a woman—maybe even two: Juliet, of course, and Vick could come if she wanted to. But, honestly, that was the extent of girls for a while. They would have to be periphery members if they were going to be a part of the Shawn and Gus clubhouse. It might even be possible to incorporate a stupid mantra into the rules: _If you have boobs, you'll be refused!_ He'd take it over _No body, no crime, Shawn_ any damn day of the week.

He was glad that Carlton nodded, and there was a certain serenity in the two of them checking that windows and doors were locked. Shawn liked Lassiter's house. He'd expressed it many times before, and had been among the few that'd helped Lassie put his first household items among its empty rooms. For the last year, since Lassie moved in, Shawn had tried to trick his way into a sleep-over. He invented reasons to drop by, because he liked to sit on the enclosed patio area, surrounded by green things he didn't care to know the name of, but was astounded when Carlton told him their names anyway: wisteria was the purple stuff, birds of paradise were the fetching orange-yellow flowers, then the standard bougainvillea and lemon tree. Unlike Gus's apartment, and his own place still in the renovated (sort of) launderette, and, how impossible it seemed given Lassiter's outward coldness, Shawn thought the house felt like a cosy old home. More than his dad's bachelor pad, more than his untouched, unaltered old bedroom. So it was with gentleness and affection that Shawn latched bolts and checked window latches, even stuck his finger in one of Lassiter's plants to make sure it didn't need to be watered.

Silently, they went out the back door, off the kitchen, still smelling faintly of last night's dinner. Carlton shut the door, the window panes giving a wheezy rattle, and immediately patted his trousers for the keys.

"I forgot—"

Jangling keys made his statement unnecessary. Shawn lifted the house key and turned the bolt into place, tugging at the warped door. As he was about to hand the wanted keys to Lassie, Shawn drew back his hand, keeping them out of reach.

"Let me drive? It is my best friend's last great adventure we're going to."

"He's getting married, Spencer," Carlton held out his hand, "not dying. Give them over."

Shawn waited, seeing if pity might evolve into capitulation. He received a tilt of the head and a narrow-eyed leer, Lassie's continual display of frustration and anger. "Didn't think so." He slapped the keys into the waiting palm, took to the sidewalk in the ambiguous morning light, and slid into the car. It smelled like cordite, feet, Armor All and just a dash of night air. The scene improved when Carlton entered, when they got going and improved air circulation from the vents.

Carlton had an absolute idea of their ultimate destination. He'd already driven up once with O'Hara, a test run to see how long it would take. Meanwhile, Shawn wriggled restlessly in the seat, having no idea where they were going but with a vague idea that it was north, on the beach, past San Luis Obispo. Shawn's need to snoop had been upstaged by a slew of odd cases that had captured his attention more than the location—sure to be sassy—of Gus and Juliet's wedding. Even Gus, the rare occasions it was mentioned, didn't seem to care whether Shawn knew or not. "Lassiter's bringing you" was declared almost as soon as Gus and Juliet decided to have it as sunrise. Carlton was the only one they trusted to have Shawn show up on time. When Shawn suggested staying at the resort with the Gusters and his parents—it seemed an easy solution—Jules gave him one of those sympathetic "I'm sorry for your stupidity: let me give you a candy bar instead, poor boy" looks that he'd rarely witnessed, and chirped pathetically, "Then who would make sure Carlton comes?" It seemed that Shawn and Carlton's friendship was doomed to hang on the dreary rack of symbiosis. Their friends, the Chief at times, too, had accustomed themselves to relying on them as a unit rather than individually, if the situation called for Shawn's vigilance and Carlton's assertiveness.

A little into the ride up The One, Carlton abruptly gripped the steering wheel with a white-knuckle tightness. "You brought the gifts, right?"

Shawn's first reaction was to retaliate boldly, brassily, that they were in the trunk and for the love of God stop being an uptight ankle sock! "Don't be the scarer of sunshine on my sunny day, Lassie. I bought them a ten-years' supply of Pop Rocks and one hundred Sky Bars. They should be eating them right this minute up at the hotel. I want them good and sugary when we arrive. Gus gets the cutest little sugar mustache when he…" His smile dropped at Lassie's scowl and accompanying grunt like a sour chord out of a moldy old tuba. 'Yeah, yeah, I brought them. They should be in the trunk. Seriously," another worry, as antique as the primordial ideas of the wedding, seeped into Shawn's porous conscience, "if I get up there and find out Gus has had a stag party, and if I find out that Mr T was there, I'm never speaking to him again. And I'm taking back the Roller Racer I bought for him—yes, that's right, I bought him a Roller Racer. Him and Juliet." Quieter, more for himself than defense against any bizarre note Lassie might see in his gift, he said, "I don't want them getting fat and all squishy in their matrimonial era, and I want them to have fun."

"I suppose you bought one for yourself?"

"That totally goes without saying, Lassie. I was going to get you a Pogo Ball, but I was torn on whether or not you already had one."

Scenery soon lost all claim on Shawn's memory, and everything outside the window, as daylight lifted night's gauze, became an enigma to explore. The two of them became too quiet and thoughtful, and Shawn accurately described the lay of Lassie's thoughts one too many times.

"They'll be back before we know it." He reached across the empty space and patted Carlton's thigh, until it was yanked out of reach.

"That's not what I was thinking!"

Shawn did that thing he always does that annoyed Lassie any hour of the day, but perhaps worse at six in the morning: holding his fingers beside his head so his fingers made an agile, graceful "C".

"Well, not all of what I was thinking," Lassie corrected. "I just hope that Chief Vick—"

"Dear, sweet Karen."

"Chief Vick," he repeated for emphasis, "will not let us—me—"

"Us, Lassie, you can say it and mean it now."

"Fine," but his knuckles tightened on the wheel, the other clutching the cranberry juice bottle till its plastic crimped, "us—let us go without a case while Guster and O'Hara are gone."

"I'm sure she'll go out and rouse criminal activity just for our sake. She's just that kind of woman. I know I've always thought so."

Carlton wondered if it ever got old for Shawn, to create all the needless wit, to crack whips against humor and recalcitrance with the adroitness of a dolphin on amphetamines.

"We'll be all right," Shawn averred, prolonging his thought process of it to bring himself necessary comfort, and saying it aloud to heal any leftover issues of abandonment that might be lingering in the dark places of Lassie's blemished soul. "We could always go over cold cases. Never a dull moment there."

Shades of grey filled the eastern horizon when they were forty minutes from their destination. Shawn had brought Lassiter into a word game. Vague Memory Card Cases, as Shawn had named it, or VMCC for short. One of them would recall a case they had worked on together, then give one-word clues to the case's identity. Like Twenty Questions, but it usually took less than twenty times to get the case right; and of course they were using words, nouns and verbs alone, no proper names allowed, rather than questions. Carlton found he was fascinated by the titles Shawn had given their cases over the years.

"Each one has its own title," Shawn expatiated, yawning greatly into two hands before continuing. "It's how I remember them in my head, usually. There's _Cloudy With A Chance of Murder_—"

"Ah, the murdered weatherman," said Lassie, smiling.

"_High Noon-ish_. That's was all about you—and that weird place of your childhood. _Talk Derby To Me_."

"O'Hara and the roller derby girls!" exclaimed Carlton with a snap of his fingers and a grin.

"Right again. You're on fire, Lass! What about _Nine Lives_?"

"Not the one with the McNab's cat!"

"You are more than a smoldering pile of ashes, Lassie. You're a redwood in an inferno! And that was one brave little boy cat."

"Girl cat."

"I've heard it both ways. What's another one that might amuse you? H'mm." He noticed street signs and buildings, popping out of the dark as rectangles of unfathomable dimension. "Where are we going?"

"I don't recognize that one."

"It's not a title. It's me, wondering where we're going. There's _Lassie Did a Bad, Bad Thing_ which is not one of my personal favorites, although I did help clear your name. Gus, too. Then there was _Octowussy_ and _The Matchstick on the Rooftop_, and _Throw Me the Whip_. You wouldn't know those last ones because they were solitary cases I took by myself. It's going to rain in about half a mile."

Shawn had noticed cars on the southern side of the road with swishing windshield wipers, and, along with a change in the smell through the vents, it seemed that a little lingering morning shower waited.

The first smacking kiss of a raindrop against the glass narrowed Carlton's eyes, but all the subsequent ones sent his thoughts into hyper-drive: turning on the wipers, setting them to the right speed for this annoyingly indecisive pace of rain, wondering about the wedding, hoping it wouldn't rain all day—

"Scattered showers were in the forecast today." Again, Shawn effortlessly read Carlton's worries. "I hope Gus and Jules have an alternate venue, nice as it would be to get married in a rainstorm on the beach. Now that would be unusual. Then we could all go and build fantastic sand castles. Everyone knows they only work if the sand's wet. It generates appropriate viscosity. Aw, Lassie, you're frowning. Was it my use of the word 'viscosity' that's throwing you off? Now we're even."

"Even? For what, Spencer?"

"Dude, three words: Teal biki—"

"Never mind!" Carlton grimaced, raised a hand, avidly listening to the rhythmic rain and wipers. If he hadn't been so humiliated, vexed, annoyed, by more than traveling two hours in the same car with Shawn Spencer, he might've easily been lulled to sleep. The exit loomed, and soon the ordeal would be complete, and some other adventure for him, for Shawn, and one big one for Gus and Juliet, would begin.

In the parking lot, slightly damp from the previous rain, Shawn lifted out of the seat and stretched, yawned, and lamented that he hadn't thought of a better entrance. It would've behooved his _Miami Vice_ outfit if he had pummeled into the marina on a classy speed boat, maybe with an alligator sunning itself on the deck, like some reptilian cruise guest. Alas, he was doomed for this prosaic entrance, striding alongside Lassie, tall and pulling off a stylish suit purchased new—not even off the rack (Shawn was secretly proud)—for the blissful occasion. Then, everything switched, and it was Carlton who read Shawn's mind.

"If you call me Philip Michael Thomas or—or whatever his character's name was on the show, so help me, Spencer, I'm going to cram a petit four so far up the crack in your ass that you'll need surgery to get it out!"

Shawn stared at him. They'd stopped walking in the vehemency of Carlton's abrasive speech. "What do you have against PMT, anyway? Or my man Tubbs? Or petit fours for that matter? It is a delicious piece of cake done up so nice and pretty. And eventually my ass would just swallow it whole. My ass can take a lot, Lassie, and don't forget it."

But he walked away, ending the discussion with a proud air of triumph, pushing up his sleeves and humming Jan Hammer's theme song. They didn't speak to one another again until standing on the access plank to the beach. Dawn was definitely swarming in the east, and all the pastels of the sun's emergence began to swirl away the endless blue of night.

Yet the beach was empty. Not a soul was in sight. There were no rows of chairs decorated in cute furbelows, no trellis heaped with lilies and roses. Nothing. No thing at all. Shawn's shoulders slumped. He made a crackle of astonishment in the back of his throat, staring once at Lassiter, as blank as he felt, and back at the abandoned beach.

"What the hell is this? Didn't you bring us to the right place?"

"Oh this is the right place. Believe me."

"But where is everyone? Where's my best friend's beautiful sunrise wedding?" He gleaned not one substantial piece of evidence from Lassie's face, aside from a quirky little rise in his right eyebrow. That meant something—Shawn had noticed it once—but in his distress, his mind wanted to go sideways, slip into what was comfortable: this disarray was comfortable, because he couldn't explain it away. He looked at his iPhone, looked at Lassie's watch, looked at his own, and all had the same time. The ceremony was supposed to start in fifteen minutes.

In his boat shoes and linen suit, Shawn dashed back to the parking lot. Carlton jogged to keep up with him, beginning to find that this held the essences of amusement. He'd never seen Spencer so flustered.

Shawn pointed out the cars he recognized: Gus's, Juliet's, the Gusters' sedan, Joy's rental car, and so on… Everyone who should be at the resort was there. But he noticed that McNab's car, Chief Vick's, too, were not among the crowd, though there could be a hundred different explanations for their absence.

"Come on," Lassiter tugged at Shawn's elbow, his touch light and simple, unobtrusive, "let's go inside and see if we can find some answers."

Shawn was malleable, willing to be tugged along without retort, into the hotel's opulent lobby. The elegance and beauty of it stunned him further. He was on his way to the clerk behind the counter when another tug came from Lassie. Shawn followed the bob of his head, the line of his eyes, to a sunken lounge area and a display of people there. They stood up from chairs and wooden seats, leaving behind coffee cups and bowls of sliced fruit.

At the forefront stood Gus, in his casual, everyday wear that a gentleman of his fashion-conscious understanding wouldn't wear to a wedding or a funeral. Beside him, Juliet, her blonde hair in wavy, shower-damp tresses across her shoulders, bright as the smile used to greet them.

Shawn halted, completely frozen at this incalculable happening, as soon as he'd taken the three steps into the lounge. He was too dumb to move. Finally, when he noted that his dad and mom were there, they waved at him, along with the Gusters and a grinning Joy, Shawn believed this was merely a pre-wedding reception. Of course. A pineapple and mango breakfast followed by a few wedding vows followed by petit fours, which he was now rather looking forward to.

"So—is this a champagne breakfast?" he started, loose again in joints and muscles, his eyes freely roving across Gus and Juliet. It had been incredibly easy to see them together. "Hadn't we better hurry if the ceremony is—"

The first laugh came from Juliet. She never could keep a straight face when they had wrangled Shawn into one of their massively extravagant pranks. Gus was so close behind her, though, that it was really his bursting guffaw that shed the light of intelligence upon Shawn. He needn't have listened to the other boughs of laughter reverberating through the lounge.

For a moment, Shawn faked it, pretended it wasn't true—that they wouldn't have stooped to such a level just for the sake of getting to Shawn Spencer. Absolutely not. No way. The wholeness and intensity of the ruse hit him as he looked at Lassie. Usually fitted with a poker-face, it had collapsed into the same gleaming, idiotic grin as everyone else.

"You were in on this!" Shawn could hardly believe it. He collapsed his face into a hand for a moment, emerging to gander at the crowd. They were all in on it! Had been, for months and months! "Oh my God, biggest prank _ever_!"

Before he could laugh at it himself, he hopped up and down three times, Gus enfolding him with arms and laughter, Juliet squeezing in. Shawn noticed himself saying a few derogatory words of his own inability to notice what he'd willingly wandered into.

He talked to everyone, and each, in turn, laughed at his expense for another time. He did his best to hide his embarrassment.

"And you never suspected?" his dad asked, while his mom handed him a dish of pineapple and mango with a dollop of cottage cheese.

"There were a couple of times we thought you'd figured it out," she said.

"Thanks, Mom, for thinking your son is just that brilliant! No, honestly, Dad, I didn't know. We were so busy with case after case. I've spent as much time with Gus lately as I have with each of you. And I'm getting to know Lassie on a level I never thought I would.' He paused, brow wrinkled in the middle, contemplating teal bikini briefs and petit fours put in places lovely sponge cakes were not meant to creep. "Anyway—I wanted to believe they'd do something off the wall for their wedding. I have such high hopes for those crazy, love-struck kids. So of course I'd believe they'd get married at dawn…"

The real wedding was at sunset. Shawn heard it later when the four of them prowled the strip of sand, doused in gorgeous sunrise hues. Every once in a while, Shawn would be struck by their ability to dupe him so thoroughly, and strike himself in the forehead as a consequence. "I should've known! Ugh, I should've known! My psychic channels have been all crazy since the two of you started dating."

"Sure, blame it on us," intoned Gus, yet expecting nothing less of Shawn. "Maybe there's a thunderstorm in your ether, Psychic Detective."

"Gus, that makes total sense. Thank you so much for clearing away the ambiguous and ethereal cobwebs for me. Now I can predict things with greater accuracy. I can predict that Lassie is wearing magenta nylon bikini briefs."

Juliet did a rather becoming squeal, admonishing Shawn for his choice of predictions.

"I can't control these things, Jules, no more than I can control the love between you and Magic Head here." He certainly hadn't seen that coming, either, all the more reason to be overjoyed by their unpredictable playfulness, their elaborate series of pranks over the last year and a half. "And, all the same, which of you is going to prove my clairvoyance wrong? Anyone? Anyone? I didn't think so."

Juliet smacked Carlton on his chest. "Carlton! Are you going to take that from Shawn?"

"Well," but it was Shawn that spoke, "I really doubt he's going to drop trou right here in front of us. He won't deny it."

Finally, Shawn had gotten to Lassiter, and with his hands in his trousers pockets, the leg hems rolled up like theirs, walking barefoot on smooth sands warmed by the sun of a July morning, the last bits of his inner thorns disappeared. "I won't deny it, no."

The announcement had the intended impact: Gus hooted and Juliet laughed so hard that she had to dash inside to get rid of champagne and coffee.

"I knew it," said Shawn, narrow-eyed glare at Lassiter. "I am the super sleuth, the greatest gumshoe when it comes to solving what sort of underpants a man prefers. Michael Jordan? He doesn't wear Hanes. That's a secret just between us."

"I didn't say I prefer them, but I won't deny wearing them."

This was a conundrum, rather with a doggerel ring to it, and Shawn waited to see if insight might be provided. When none seemed forthcoming, Shawn dragged it out of him.

"Let me guess: Victoria hated them. She preferred more traditional forms of undergarments. You probably wore sock garters and were up to your armpits in whitey-tighties. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong about any of this."

Carlton went on to concede, explain, and, before they realized it, Gus had left them, and they'd walked a long stretch of the beach.

The day passed in activities and, when two other showers briefly let loose, times of mellowness. As the sun reappeared, hit the western slope of sky, groom and best man readied themselves in Gus's room. "I can't believe you're making me wear this cheap, bastardized version of a Sonny Crockett original, Gus."

"Oh no I'm not." And Gus bobbed his head to the bed, to a tuxedo in a bag lying there. "That's what you're wearing. The suit was just a part of the prank, Shawn."

"Because that's how you and Jules roll. I don't suppose Lassie's bikini briefs were part of the prank, were they?"

"As much as I'd like to say yes to that, no, that was real. Definitely all Lassiter. Can we never mention Lassiter's underwear again, please? It's starting to creep me out a little."

"Fair enough, my underwear-phobic friend. Dude," Shawn held up the tuxedo jacket from the hanger hook, "I'm totally going to look like Wadsworth from _Clue_ in this."

"Shawn," a little angrier now, "put it on."

"No," in his imitation Tim Curry.

"Shawn!"

"No!" And again. "The Sonny Crockett suit was merely a red herring!"

Shawn laughed and gave Gus a thorough workout chasing him around the room—over the bar, over the bed, over the next bed, and finally cornering Shawn in the bathroom. A handful of exchanges of dialogue and one-line quotes from _Clue_ followed. Shawn paused, sighed, and embraced Gus with a little rub to the back of the perfectly round head. "I love you, buddy, even if your friends do have communist connections."

"Shawn, be serious."

"I was serious, except about the friends as communists part. We all know I'm a Jon-Stewart with streaks of Stephen-Colbert, but only on certain issues."

Gus hesitated bumping knuckles, doing so only with an ultimatum. "You'll wear the tuxedo without any further reference to any 80's film?"

"Promise. I will kneel before Zod and promise. Sorry, that sort of slipped out. And it was lame to boot, and now I'm ashamed and will wear this tuxedo in disgrace. Somewhere Terence Stamp is weeping."

Their fists bumped, and Shawn closed the door at Gus's exit. He gave a wary glare at the tuxedo, to himself in the mirror a la Don Johnson, circa 1984. He would've preferred an 80's theme wedding, but supposed that would have to wait.

The ceremony was beautiful and sombre, the exact opposite of the rowdy, sometimes crass reception afterwards. Shawn decided, with Joy his interlocutor as they tore up the dance floor, that it was not so much a reception as a night club party fueled by love, an open bar, and shiny gifts. A little before ten, the limousine came and hauled away Gus and Juliet, hand in hand towards their unending pilgrimage. Shawn expected a windfall of loneliness and misery once the car was gone, but if it had taken away only Gus, the sensation mightn't have been as powerful. But to take away two of his closest friends, the pain sheathed loneliness and went right for misery.

The guests dispersed to their homes down The One, or into their rooms as the night wound into morning. Shawn, feet sore clear to his shins, descended from the hotel to the moonlit beach. It calmed him to listen to the ocean waves stumbling in, like blind beings looking for any sort of foothold, only to slip away again. Shoes and socks removed, he stuck his feet in the cool sand.

"It's like an instant massage, Lassie. You should try it."

Carlton had loomed behind him, had actually been prowling the walk in front of the hotel lobby for some time, as if trying to decide if he wanted to interpose on Shawn's exile. The invitation given was silently accepted. The two sat with their feet in the sand, hands out behind them to support their tired torsos, for several minutes without speaking.

"I still can't believe they did this," Shawn eventually spoke, revisiting the prank he hadn't seen coming.

"Don't feel bad, Spencer. We had months and months to pull the wool over your eyes."

"Whose idea was it? Please don't tell me it was Gus's. This isn't his style. His style was the elaborate prank that told me the two of them were dating in the first place. Jules was the one who came up with the 'I'm Pregnant With A Swamp Beast' scare."

"That was hilarious. We almost had you fooled with that one."

"Yeah, almost." Shawn uttered the two words as a restless lament. He hoped they'd continue their fantastic schemes. He needed them to.

Lassiter removed one foot from the sand, then the other, rearranging his long legs beneath one another. "It was my idea. Well—initially, it was my idea. Gus and Juliet came up with the actual ruse themselves. But I was the one who said we should try our best to prank you at their own wedding."

"H'mm. Well played." Shawn set his wrists to his knees, his chin to the top wrist, staring into the mist between sea and horizon, with moonlight shooting into his eyes, emollient and peaceful. "I sense that the two of them are going to prank me at my own wedding."

"Probably. I'd be on the lookout for that, if I were you."

"Where's the fun in that?"

The two of them looked at one another, and thoughts scrambled into, as Gus had phrased it, the thunderstorm in ether. Their respective crime-fighting partners were off for a wedding tour of the world, for nearly three weeks. What were the two of them supposed to do? Shawn thought elaborately. He always did. He imagined chasing tangled cases that took him into cities were Gus and Jules vacationed, and as their tour progressed so would the crimes. It would be like a crossover of _MacGyver_ and _Scarecrow and Mrs King_. Maybe with some _Golden Girls_ thrown in if they happened to go to Sicily. And a Michael Shayne story, just because he liked the name and the more obscure reference from days way before disco went mainstream.

He saw a flicker of light out the corner of his eye: a shadow shuffling before a lamp post. He turned about, making Lassie move with him, to see the Chief with the phone still pressed to her ear. She put it away, staring at them in a fixed way they were used to.

"Lassiter, Spencer."

"Chief, I'm sensing a—"

"There's been a murder. The victim was found floating in a pool. The two of you up for it?"

"It's one in the morning," Shawn started to whine, already knowing he would haul himself back to Santa Barbara, "don't murderers ever sleep in? And I've been drinking."

Carlton stared. "You had two glasses of wine, Spencer! And, anyway, I'm driving."

They hurriedly put on their shoes, Chief Vick delivering vague details of the case. Shawn claimed the psychic vibrations of the world, those secrets of the universe he plucked from thin air, were scrambled by exhaustion, titillation (he used the word with a haughtily cocked eyebrow), and two flutes of high-quality champagne; he could offer no insights, but predicted that his head would clear once he reached the crime scene.

"How convenient," Vick claimed, her sardonic smile holding the haze of affection.

Going by her to get his Don Johnson suit left in the room, Shawn rubbed his thumb behind the tuxedo's satin collar. "Hey, Chief, am I supposed to change out of this thing?"

"Depends on whether or not it's returnable with crime scene evidence on it, Mr Spencer."

That's why he loved her so much: sassy, straight-speaking, and she respected a good tuxedo as much as a crime scene. She nodded, slid into the sedan, set the lights blazing but kept the sirens silent, and was soon a Fourth of July twinkle between distant underbrush.

"It's too bad you have to change out of it," Lassiter began, attempting, for the first time, to be provokingly coy with Spencer. To give, maybe—as good as he'd received. "It's kinda sexy."

Shawn laughed so hard that he nearly "pulled a Jules" by running to the bathroom. As it was, he got a cramp in his side, spent the whole elevator ride massaging it, and whining about the pain Lassie had inflicted. The tuxedo was rented, however, and Gus and Juliet's wedding co-ordinator wanted it back for the morning. All the while, through his rigorous teasing, Shawn had known this. Inside the room, he verbalized acknowledgement of Lassiter's unexpected signal of humour.

"It's good to hear you say that, Lassie, it really is." Shawn, in triumphal, exaggerated gestures, removed the trousers with a dramatic flourish, so that Lassiter couldn't help but look. Beneath the loosened blue t-shirt hem, Carlton saw a hint of bright green and then bare, hairy legs made all the uglier by towering black socks. The hint of green, however, that is what held his attention longest and surest.

It was a while before Carlton could do anything more than point.

Shawn wouldn't really. Even Shawn wouldn't. It violated far too many personal boundaries.

"Stare away, my friend," Shawn said, striking a provocative pose. "Because I borrowed a pair of your fancy underwear."

Once it was said, Shawn realized it might've been more brilliant had he put on his Don Johnson pants _before_ admitting and flaunting it. Lassiter snarled, growled, clenched his hands, and, like Gus had done, gave chase around the room. Shawn managed to divert Lassie by tipping over a chair. It gave him enough time to grab the remains of his suit and sprint out the door.

He took the stairs, and heard Lassie take the stairs after him. In the lobby, the astonished desk clerk stared open-mouthed, and a few straggling wedding guests gaped, but Shawn was a blear as quick as he moved. Outside, he scrambled into his shoes, adjusted the bundle of cloth over one arm, readying the remote to unlock Lassiter's vehicle. Behind him, Lassiter's pace lagged and Shawn ran on, clear across the parking lot. Lassiter, unable to run and laugh at the same time, finally stopped, doubled over, with the image of Shawn, pantless but shirt fluttering in the wind resistance, silhouetted sharply against the moon and sparkles of the ocean, now a part of indelible memory.

Reunited in the car, Carlton was grave and puzzled but with his eyes straight ahead. Beside him, fabric rustled as Shawn completed his toilette in rather confined space.

"I can't believe you did that, Spencer."

"Oh cheer up, Lassie. Green's not really your colour, anyway. I had an inkling—"

"Inkling?"

"Inkling of what was going on here today. I suspected a prank."

"You did not."

"Didn't I?"

Lassiter stole a glance at Shawn, who'd anticipated it, with his fingers in that common "C" shape next to his face.

"I sensed a possible coup, and decided I would play my own prank."

"You played a prank in case we pulled a prank on you?"

"The idea of a fake wedding had crossed my mind, Lassie. Come on! Jules and Gus are always pulling stuff like this. So, naturally, I wanted to be prepared."

"By borrowing my underwear? Thanks, Spencer."

"Don't get your bikini briefs in a bunch, my Calvin Klein advertisement."

Lassiter focused on the twisting road ahead, wincing at the reference's ambiguity.

"They're my briefs." In three words, Shawn had dimmed Carlton's simmering anger.

"I saw you take a t-shirt and a pair of boxers into the bathroom."

"Wow, vigilant Lassie is vigilant. Wait." Shawn held up a hand, closed his eyes, and made some noise similar to a pleasurable, post-coital sigh. "I'm just—just so proud of you right now. You would be right. The briefs were under the boxers. Vigilant," the eyebrow went up again, "but not quite vigilant enough. I had on both pairs, because that's the sort of security I need. When Gus had me change into the tuxedo, I took off the boxers, left on the briefs. Now, yes, it's true, I'm wearing both again. I'm very warm."

He flung the climate control fan to High, routing the nearest vents to blow on his crotch.

"Dare I ask," and Lassiter did hesitate, "how you knew— Oh wait, I know this one. You helped me move in."

"I would give you a Scooby Snack for being such a smart little guy, but someone at the reception ate all of them. I think it was McNab. I probably should've mentioned that they weren't snack crackers."

Without saying another word, Carlton resumed a quietness befitting the nearing one o'clock hour. He wondered what odd name Spencer would give this case.

"What do you think, Lassie? I'm thinking _Kamikatree_. Because the Chief said it was something about a tree falling in a suspicious way on a bunny breeder."

"That's not what she said, Spencer. She said a stripper named Avery Tree was killed in a suspicious way, and found by another stripper named Summer Preacher."

"Please keep in mind that I have been drinking. So, no adorable little bunnies?"

"No."

"No?" in his Tim Curry voice, ostensibly lost on Lassiter but, in fact, not lost on him at all. "Dude, why's it always strippers?"

"We've never worked with strippers."

"Sure we have. Remember _Milk Stockings_? Clearly a case about a stripper. And adorable if a bit naughty novelty ice cream cakes. Now that was a delicious case."

Carlton was about to disagree, but eventually lifted a shoulder and bobbed his head in lame agreement.

"Jules and Gus's little cakes were so moist and tasty, weren't they? The petit fours idea was genius. You can drive faster than this, Lassie. Look, there's no one on the road! Put the light on the roof and let's make this highway taste our exhaust! Come on!"

Thinking he'd better, though already driving eighty-five, Lassiter hitched the red light to the rooftop, hearing his ears pop as the window went up and stopped the airflow. With both hands on the wheel, at Ten and Two, though he was really a Nine and Three kind of guy, he urged the pedal down with the whole of his foot. The engine roared, settled into a big-kitty purr as they hit ninety-five.

Shawn's phone rang. "Lieutenant Castillo, finally! Tubbs and I have been trying to get a hold of you all night."

"Dammit, Spencer," cursed Lassiter.

"Shawn!" reprimanded Gus. "Didn't Lassiter say he would shove a petit four up your crack if you called him Tubbs?"

"Oh relax. He doesn't have any. We're in pursuit of a stripper named Summer Preacher."

"Are you for real?"

"You know there are two things that I never kid about: the proper method of smoothie blending, and strippers. And if I did, for some reason, invent a stripper named Summer Preacher, there'd be gummi worms and Harry Dean Stanton involved."

"You know that's right."

They talked for a minute, with Gus and Jules at the gate waiting for their flight. While speaking to Jules, Shawn had to interrupt her sprightly, happy voice, happier than he'd ever heard her, as Lassiter reached over and took something out of the glove compartment. It landed on Shawn's lap with the telling crinkle of a plastic sandwich bag.

"Hang on, Jules, Lassiter just gave me something."

"What is it? A kick in the head?"

"Uh, almost—but maybe a little more metaphorical."

Shawn held it up against the intermittent street lamps. Then, noting its shape, getting a hint of its colour, and, holding it to his nose, catching its sugary, sweet smell, Shawn laughed. It was a petit four.

"Jules, babe, I have to go. We've got crimes to solve and petit fours to do crazy things with. Call me when you two land. I'm sure Gus will want to hear all about the stripper."

"Stripper? What stripper? Shawn, what's going on?"

"Gotta go, Jules. We're on a big case, and I can't talk about it. Love and hugs, and Lassie sends his best sloppy kisses."

He hung up, put the phone back in his jacket pocket, sniffed, pushed up his sleeves, then handled the packaged petit four. He hadn't expected Lassie to be so clever, to come at him with such a retort, with such a wallop in one tiny little scrumptious cake.

"I'm putting this in the freezer when we get home,' he said. "We can eat it on our first anniversary. With Gus and Jules, of course."

Carlton couldn't respond, having then to veer carefully around a semi, a utility truck in the centre lane, and a car merging badly onto the freeway. The length of time passed that made it awkward to revisit Shawn's sentiment, whether it was a joke, or even if the ridicule held a grain of truth. They hardly spoke, but to toss out conjecture as the police radio crackled every once in a while, until they made it to the station.

"It was a good wedding," Shawn commented, apropos nothing, before they reached Lassiter's desk, with O'Hara's looking neat, prim, anticipating her lengthy absence, a photograph of her and Gus at its corner. The Chief was there, a few familiar faces, another from homicide who'd take O'Hara's place, if in title only, and one from vice who knew Summer Preacher personally.

"Let's wrap this up quickly, Chief," Shawn started, slapping his hands together. "Lassie and I want to get home to play Uno all night, guzzle down a few Pabsts, and listen to the new Butch Walker album. We have things to do."

He held up the petit four, received blank expressions, while Lassie, penned to the end of his desk, slumped over and shaded his eyes with his hand. During this distraction, Shawn noted what he could of the new case file in Vick's hand, and had already delineated certain data from the detectives from vice and homicide.

He threw out a few guesses, enough to engage Vick and animate Lassie. Within a minute, they were once again in Lassiter's car, heading towards the posh crime scene. Shawn put the petit four into the glove box, "from whence it came" as he muttered. He'd remember it later, when Lassiter took him home, to whose home hardly mattered, though he'd left all his stuff at Lassiter's. Partly, he suspected, on purpose. Beers tasted better, and the day ended better, on Lassie's patio.

There was the usual bustle of police activity around the estate. The body of Avery Tree hung nearly half out of a pool. The witness, Summer Preacher, had already answered a dozen trifling questions and was pleased to get rid of the "beat cops" for real detectives.

"He's not a detective," Carlton immediately said.

"Forgive him. He doesn't usually dress like this and his has his chi all out of whack." Shawn hastened to clear up Miss Preacher's confusion, her eyes already burdened, like a raccoon, by tear-wasted mascara. "My name is Jonathan Creek, and this is my crime-fighting partner, the detective-slash-magician Don Diavolo. We're from the SBPD—here to help."

"Why do you smell like you've been drinking? You smell like Chico Ramone."

Shawn, his hands in a frozen clap in front of him, merely stared at the copper and gold coloring of Summer Preacher. What the hell had just happened to him? "I have no idea who that is. Wow. Lassie, you wanna take this?"

"Detective Lassiter, SBPD." He ignored Shawn's murmured complaints about being seen as hypocrites. "We won't keep you too long, Miss Preacher, just long enough to get a good lead."

Summer was both reluctant and relieved. Real men. Who dressed decently. They could put a different twist on her own little burgeoning bungalow of hell. When Shawn got the low-down of Avery Tree's lifestyle, that of a private stripper among other well-paying gigs, Shawn leaned in to whisper to Lassie.

"I got it. _Stripper Dipper_. Or is that too crass? Too vague?" He just watched Lassiter turn the toothpick around in his mouth, in an alluring, talented way of tongue and teeth and just the right gap between jaws.

"_Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kill Me, Pill Me_," offered Lassiter. He bobbed his head at an empty, opened prescription pill bottle hidden beneath a beauty bush. It had already been marked as evidence.

"Nice classic U2 citation! You know, I'm not sold on that yet. We'll have to work on it," Shawn said, amused and subjecting his intelligence to the mere notion that Carlton Lassiter was far more clever than previously exhibited.

Carlton missed O'Hara, even missed Guster if just for those rare chances he could get Shawn to shut up, or curtail his antics a little bit. As with all the lots life had handed him, he reflected that it could've been worse, that Juliet could've married Shawn, and then he'd be investigating this crime scene alone with Burton Guster.

No, he'd rather have it this way. He was surprised by the revelation, though suspected, accurately, that Shawn was not.

Still, it was a better ending to the event than even a psychic could've predicted.


	2. Part the Second

Part the Second

-x-

"You don't look perky this morning, Brad," Shawn said to the plant on the window sill. He didn't know what it was. It had variegated, lancelet leaves, and looked like overgrown crabgrass.

"Who are you talking to, Spencer?"

"The plant."

Carlton didn't know what to say, filling the mug Spencer had thoughtfully set out for him, and so distracted by Shawn's insanity that the hot liquid reached the brim quicker than intended.

"It answers to the name of Brad and likes Tchaikovsky overtures."

Carlton avoided response by sitting at the bistro table, unfolding the paper. Shawn pampered the plant additional seconds. He sipped his fake coffee—a cup of milk with a couple drops of bean water and a tablespoon of sugar. It was laughable that Shawn Spencer would require caffeine in the morning.

"You should get a goldfish or something, Lassie."

"Why? Goldfish always look angry. I don't like my pets scowling at me."

Shawn thought about it, shrugged, and rushed to cheerfully answer his ringing phone.

"If it isn't my precious cup o' morning Gus! Finally at your destination?"

"We are here to frolic about London, then on to Amsterdam."

"Okay, that's fair. But don't call it frolicking, because I think the Dutch prefer the word gamboling. You might be able to get away with frolicking in London, though. It sounds far more dangerous, especially once they know you're American. What's London famous for beside those guys that never speak, the ones in the big hats?"

"I don't know. Fish and chips? Prawns? Sienna Miller?"

"Those will not travel well. Especially Sienna Miller if she's in D and G. Tell you what. Get me packages of Fruit Pastilles and Jelly Babies, and we'll say that's good enough. When you get to Amsterdam, get me some chocolate, would you? And some wooden shoes for Lassie. Oh, and if you can somehow record a Mentos commercial from over there, I will love you forever and ever."

Gus talked about the flight, although he and Jules had slept through most of it. Shawn pictured their hands clasped on a fat business-class armrest, Jules's espousal rings flashing, where Gus had spared no expense getting his princess the best he could. For a while, Shawn spoke to Jules, astonished her with his key phrases and insipid insight into Lassiter's life.

"Wait, you're still at Carlton's?"

"That I am, my lovely golden-haired fleecy lamb. I'm on the patio right now staring at the lemon tree. I think it needs a name. Shouldn't lemon trees have names? Do you suppose it would develop a complex if I named it Lavender or Herb?"

"He was threatening yesterday to disinfect his entire place because you'd contaminated it."

That sounded like Carlton. "We didn't leave the crime scene until four. And all my things are here."

"I'm sure you could've survived a night without your _things_ at your own place."

"No, I couldn't."

"But didn't you spend the night under a tree once, out in the woods, shot in the arm?"

"It was the shoulder. Merely a flesh wound. But otherwise, yes, and your memory astounds, Mrs Jules de Gustay." He diverted her attention, afraid she'd pull out every psychology class she'd taken, and find out what he already knew: he wanted his things, because the marriage of his best friends had floated minuscule insecurities straight to the simmering surface of emotions. "We're off in a bit to speak with the Trees. Which isn't at all what it sounds like."

"You're working a case."

"Now don't be envious, Jules. It isn't becoming on a blushing bride."

She could even hear the look on his face, so emotive was his voice. Predictably, Juliet smiled, giggled, and ended with an "Ah, Shawn…" as she drew fingertips across her eyes. After a few more phrases and jokes, she gave the phone back to Gus, took out her own, and speed-dialed Lassiter.

Her first words were not even hello, but an accusatory: "What _are_ you doing?"

A dumbfounded Lassiter wondered at the query's origin. "I'm sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper, having—"

"With Shawn, I mean."

"He's still here?"

"He's on the patio, talking to Gus on the phone."

"So he is. I can see him out the window." Lassiter raised a hand and waved at Shawn in the lounge chair, in jeans and a horizontal striped polo, the iPhone to his ear.

"But you're working a case together. And Gus and I aren't there to intercede, or keep you from accidentally _shooting_ him."

Carlton drained the last of his coffee, left the mug beside the sink, and kept a lean, lingering stare on Spencer before pivoting away. "The key witness in the investigation actually likes him. You know how stupidly personable he can be. And you know that people find me—not stupidly personable. I need him for the case. Look, O'Hara you know how difficult it is to break certain red tape around certain Santa Barbara individuals, and Spencer has just enough onus and naiveté to pull it off. Now do you think I'm a hypocrite?"

"No, I don't think you're a hypocrite, Carlton. I wouldn't think that."

"So, what's the trouble?"

"Just tell Shawn that you're not his little friend. He likes you, Carlton. I don't want him filled up on hope that you're going to ever forgive him," she halted at her own interesting choice of words, "and then have you return to your mean old self again. It's not fair to him."

Carlton gave this thought, rummaged through possible repercussions, and in the end decided it would be impossible for him, at his current level of emotion, to tell Spencer anything of the kind.

Meanwhile, in the peaceful curtilage, this conversation took place:

"Dude, who is Jules talking to?"

"Lassiter, I think."

"What's she saying to him? I can hardly hear her. Quick, let's pretend we're extras in some crime-drama and pantomime all our interaction and conversation."

"I am not doing that, Shawn."

"How am I supposed to know what she's saying?"

"I know what you can do: You can ask Lassiter to tell you."

"He's staring at me right now through the kitchen window."

Gus made some displeasing noise in the back of his throat, that echoed against his soft palate. "In a _Silence of the Lambs_ kind of way, or a fatherly Gregory Peck kind of way?"

"More like a Peter Cushing as Grand Moff Tarkin type of way."

Gus repeated the same displeasing grunt.

"Also, Gregory Peck as paternal material? So the wrong analogy."

"I realize that. I was thinking of _To Kill A Mocking Bird_. Who would you suggest?"

"Bea Arthur. Always go with Bea Arthur."

"_She_ was a woman."

"A woman with all that and some left over. She's the answer to every identity problem."

"I'm hanging up now."

"Why do you always insist that Bea Arthur is the low point of our badinage, Gus? But, fine, I'll let you go. Lassie looks restless. I should leash him and take him for a walk."

"Please tell me you didn't just say that."

"I can't hear you," Shawn said it as normally as possible, to let Gus know he was fooling around, "you seem to be breaking up. Have fun with Jules! Don't forget my candy and chocolate! Love you, bye-bye now!" He pressed the iPhone to his sternum, sighing, mouth pushed into a displeased moue.

Lassiter swooped out of the kitchen door, sunglasses on, his most flamboyant necktie bobbing back and forth in the momentum of his giant strides. "You ready to go?"

The Trees. Why did he have to speak to the Trees? Well, he knew why: clues and finding out information and the yearning to know why Avery Tree had wound up dead in a posh pool. But—why did it have to be him? He couldn't think of a reason not to go, and somehow telling a lie—he had a tanning appointment, he had to help the Muppets film a commercial, that he was suddenly called to become the Naked Cowboy—he didn't have it in him. There was something about Avery Tree. Shawn hated it, but parallels between Avery Tree's life and his own were painfully noticeable. Minus the employment as a private escort, of course.

He trampled the flagstones, and, fixing his gaze into the back of Lassiter's head, bravely asked what Jules had said. He received the serviceable "Nothing important." They entered the car hesitating to speak of phone calls from faraway partners. As Lassiter checked the GPS to find their way to the Trees' in eastern Ventura, Shawn put down the window, the morning air of California forming quite the captivating aroma with Lassie's Old Spice scent.

"So, I was thinking. Bea Arthur," Shawn paused, "do I hear a yea or nay from you?"

Unsure of this topic, Lassiter gunned the V-8, tested the dry, cold brakes at the next neighborhood intersection, and came to understand that not everything with Spencer led down to the pit of his stomach and straight to the gut of vexation. Sometimes Bea Arthur was just Bea Arthur.

"Yea," Lassiter replied steadily. "I grew up watching her in _Maude_."

"H'mm. That explains so much." Shawn usually forgot, remembered again, then forgot again, that Lassiter was so many years older than him. Slight variances in their pop-culture repertoires emboldened their sallies. They didn't seem to clash, as what happened in different generations, but melded seamlessly, with just enough jump between to keep things interesting.

He kept wanting to sleep on the way to Ventura, not far enough, of course, for much of a nap. "Dude, Lassie," Shawn began, sounding like he'd dragged his voice over the hellish gravel of sleep deprivation, "after this, we're totally taking a vacation. Don't you have, what, two years of vacation time saved up?"

"I took a day off for Juliet and Guster's wedding. Dammit. Which street is it?"

"Next one up," Shawn said, having memorized the way to the Tree house, again he had to snicker at the name, before they'd left. "And might I just say that you are such a rebel sometimes. One whole day. I'm finding out all sorts of crazy things about you I didn't know. Favorite fabric softener. Favorite kind of underwear."

"I never said—"

"That they were your favorite kind, I know, Lassie, I know! But work with me here, all right? You're as sexy as Lorenzo Lamas sometimes, and as adorable as Justin Chambers. Don't spoil my delusions."

Their destination was a slick piece of Ventura landscape saturated in wealth. The miniature mansions tucked against well-kept, expertly manicured gardens were not new by millennium standards. Still, in the flash of time it took the Crown Victoria to creep by houses slowly enough that they could gather address numbers, Shawn's remark and Lassiter's defense hadn't been forgotten, only temporarily neglected. Too profoundly did Lassiter recall what O'Hara had told him over the phone. He didn't know the mysterious source of Shawn's like for him: O'Hara hadn't explained it and no Criminology master's would expose it, but Carlton presumed that Shawn respected him as an officer. Anything could sprout from deference, of course. Shawn's hyper-vigilance, his guessing—his whatever-it-was that brought him so much success—had, on more than one occasion, astounded the wits out of Lassiter.

He wasn't too surprised, then, when Shawn entered the home of the Trees behind him, after the "household assistant" let them into the wide, gaping, mosaic-tiled foyer, and immediately leaned for a whisper near his ear. "This is a waste of time. Look at this place! I'm sensing that they haven't even talked to Avery in years."

Just before Mrs Felicity Tree traversed the foyer from, as she eventually said, the sun room, Carlton had his own cursory inspection. For such a lovely place, it was barren, in need of opulent decorating to live up to its superficial exterior. Traveling just a few feet into the living room, Carlton knew what it reminded him of: a hotel. One giant hotel lobby. He glanced briefly at Shawn, as the two of them were invited by the big-haired, big-eyed Mrs Tree to sit down, and saw at once that Shawn had reached a similar conclusion. Nonetheless, Carlton entered into the preliminary speech, thankful that he was spared watching tears leak out the mother's eyes, but she stared at him blankly. And he didn't know why, wasn't to find the logic behind it until later, but she made him uncomfortable, made him see that perhaps his own mother wasn't hardly as bad as he'd been led to believe through the years.

Felicity Tree, as Shawn suspected, hadn't seen Avery recently. "Marcus and I have hardly spoken to him. And you see why. Marcus is hardly at home anymore, and never was, even when Avery was little. We didn't even know our son was back in the country until a few days ago."

"Really," said Shawn, squeezing a throw pillow in his crossed arms for a bigger reason than it appeared; as he suspected, it had new-pillow scent, "and why is that?"

"The bigger question, I think," Lassiter intervened, dragging the throw pillow out of Shawn's hold and tossing it back to its place, "is what your son was doing out of the country."

"Oh, Carlton, partner," Shawn's voice claimed a false sense of sympathy, not for Mrs Tree but for him, "that's not important at all. I've already told you that Avery Tree was the sort of man who liked to experience things. Isn't that right, Mrs Tree?"

Mrs Tree gravitated towards that theme. "Yes, yes he did like to experience things. Ever since he was a little boy, he was always such an explorer. He wanted to do everything. He had six jobs by the time he was out of high school."

"Right," Carlton assumed lead of the investigation again, while Shawn's eyelids lowered in a rather contemplative manner. "Did he have any enemies? Was he into drugs that you know of? He didn't have any prior incidents, and no record. The toxicology report—" He shut up when Shawn jabbed him with a surreptitious elbow.

Before Lassiter protested, or Mrs Tree noticed, Shawn perked up.

"Do you mind if I use the restroom, Mrs T? Really, I promise," he smoothed a hand over his heart, "I'm not a snoop and I always, always put the seat down, especially when I'm a guest at someone else's house. So," he hopped up, avoiding any protest, "which way might I find—?"

Thoroughly distrait by Shawn, so casual yet so spontaneous, Mrs Tree gave directions hesitantly. As soon as she turned away, Shawn caught Lassiter looking at him, deepened his frown, rolled his eyes, to show that he didn't think this interview was going to lead them into required developments.

As he'd intended, Shawn ran into the maid, espying on her as he passed the kitchen. She was mopping the floor, by hand, with a blue bucket full of water next to her. Hearing his steps, she noticed him, smiled, and he nodded and smiled in return, inching away.

The bathroom revealed a whole lot of nothing. It wasn't more than a powder room, with a sink and a toilet and a cabinet hanging on the wall, Shawn added very little to his previous assumptions.

On his way back to Mrs Tree and Lassie, Shawn wound his hand, fingers upright, in front of him. Lassiter understood, immediately got to his feet, and started his Departure Spiel. Shawn refused to wait for the maid or Mrs Tree to open the door, taking that upon himself, and coercing Lassiter into the sunshine. He waited, circumventing Lassie's hails as to what the hell the problem was, until the front door shut, until they were nearly at the car.

"Seriously," Shawn didn't even bother putting his hand to his head, so obvious it had been from the start, "so totally not Avery Tree's mom. In fact," now he swung inside the car, forcing Carlton, shocked by the revelation, to do the same, "not even their house."

"What? That can't be— This is the house we have on file for him."

"Yeah, I know. And maybe once upon a time, when all was peaceful and right with the world, and there was still a new television version of _Star Trek_ crossing the non-digital airwaves, this might have been Avery Tree's home. But, I'm telling you, not any more. And that's not his mom. I don't care if she does look like Suzanne Somers. This place is driving giant steel hammers into my supernormal juicy ju-ju."

He fabricated an hysterical swoon, complete with what he called a Category 3 Whine. Not quite a Death Whine (Category 5), but not quite a Gotta Pee Whine (Category 1). A nice, cosy sort of whine that was effective without the threat of being ignored or misinterpreted; it was called the They Cancelled My Favorite Show Whine. He gripped the beetle end of the dashboard when Lassiter swung the vehicle around using unexpected velocity. The tires squealed in protest before lurching forwards. Ventura, its hills, its misleading slants into shallow valleys, had been nothing but an unnecessary chase.

Carlton did not know where to go. He would've been content driving until a secondary option rose from the verge. Driving had a tendency to bring him a peace typically absent from his life. Some people kept bonsai trees and some people did yoga, but Carlton went to the firing range or drove about aimlessly.

"Let's get something to eat," Shawn suggested. "Creepy people make me hungry. Sushi or chicken fried steak? I could go for either. Just not both."

"Spencer, it's eleven in the morning."

"So you're saying sushi then."

Lassiter remained neutral about eating establishments.

"You have to eat something. You never eat, dude. It's like you're a fish walking about living solely on air, the thrill of being a cop, and coffee."

"That almost sounded like a compliment."

"Yeah," self-reproachfully said, "I caught that too."

"I ate breakfast," Lassiter protested.

"No. You had a slice of bread with some fruit-flavored sugar on it."

Shawn worrying about his eating habits was the last thing Carlton wanted in his life. Perhaps Shawn was only stepping into the spot vacated by O'Hara. She had worried about him, with increased ferocity, during wedding preparations. She'd mistaken his paleness and disinterest in food as a sign of apprehension, not as a sign of anguish over her marrying Burton Guster and going to leave him _alone_ with Spencer… Quickly, should Shawn sense strangeness lurking in reverberations of silence, Carlton changed topics.

"All right. Tell. How did you know about the house?"

"A psychic never reveals his secrets. Or his age. Or his underwear size. Really, I have to sign a contract of silence or a man named Fabrice comes for my perfect calves."

An increased asperity in Lassiter's repetition of Shawn's surname wrung it out of him.

"Fine. I snooped around the bathroom. No spare towels. Nowhere. Not even a cheap one from, like, a dollar store. Does that seem right to you? Also, the bar of soap next to the faucet was new. And the throw pillows on the couch were so new they still had Pottery Barn smell. I'm sorry, Lass, but it didn't take psychic vibrations to figure that one out. Oh, oh, sushi place!"

An enthusiastic point accompanied the statement, with Shawn throwing his arm so far out the open car window that Carlton admonished him on the spot. He wasn't interested in cleaning up a psychic's severed limbs. Shawn assured him that wouldn't have been the case, as he'd known, ahead of time, that no passing vehicle would've removed a limb of his.

"Two hands, still, with two arms to them," Shawn said, messing around again with Shakespeare, "the better to slap you with. Orange soda, please," he delivered calmly to the server in the tiny Japanese place, elegant and smelling of cinnamon and, somewhere around there, bergamot. "He'll have a coffee, and please bring those cute little packets of non-perishable cream. Thanks much. Tip her big, will you? She's sweet." Shawn witnessed Lassiter fist his hands atop the table, and drop his forehead to them. "Aw, hang in there, Lassie. We'll figure this out. Oh, I forgot to tell you about the maid."

"Let me guess." Lassiter slowly lifted his blazing blue eyes, all the more riveting with frustration behind them. "She's not really a maid."

Shawn proudly clapped his hands seven times in a row. "Plaudits for you, Detective. Not a maid at all!"

Again, not really a lot of psychic vibes involved with that. She had a tattoo on her ankle, a mushroom and a caterpillar type creature—an inchworm, maybe—but she'd been an extra _Explosion Gigantesca de Romance_. That he just happened to remember her crazy and unusual tattoo, completely forgetting her name, was not nearly as believable as claiming that psychic powers in the all-powerful and never-sleeping universe had revealed it to him. It pained him less when Lassiter arched his eyes at that than revealing excessive detective work, and weaving in the tiresome eidetic memory angles. He really just wanted to eat his chirashi, enjoy his soda, and get on with the investigation.

Holding to the same principle was Carlton, bemused by what had occurred, but staying silent long enough to contemplate the world's woes into his coffee, rather than aloud to Spencer. When his phone rang, he answered using his indifferent "Detective Lassiter" while Shawn looked curiously upon him. He heard but one side of the conversation, enough to learn that it was Detective Fielding, Lassiter's interim partner, and not Detective Grimes from vice. Lassiter informed Fielding of the discoveries, the fake house, the fake mother, the fake maid, but refused to send Ventura police to arrest them.

"They're long gone. They were probably out the back door by the time Spencer and I went out the front door… I don't know. Do you want me to ask him?" Carlton's eyelids narrowed, a sign that Shawn had come to know as reticence, and could barely ascertain that Detective Fielding's voice just rose an angry notch. "No, you know what? I'm not going to ask him that. How do we know that there weren't armed gunmen waiting in a back bedroom somewhere for one of us to call them on their ruse? Yes, that's fine." Fine to Carlton was synonymous with lousy, and whatever it was, Lassiter didn't want him to do it, but Fielding was going to do it anyway. As conversation from Lassiter's end waned, Shawn began to beg for the phone. It left Carlton staring into space with an empty hand near his ear, fingers drawn open where the phone had been tugged free.

"Good afternoon, Detective Fielding. This is Shawn Spencer."

Fielding's grumbled hello was the exact rudeness that Shawn expected. "Spencer, you should go back to that house right now and find out—"

"Yeah, whatever. Look, Prince Charming, I'm not a police officer, so I don't have to do what you tell me." Shawn's grin, usually so illusory, filled with an unquestionable genuineness. "Also, I do believe that Detective Lassiter is head of this investigation and takes seniority. So, if he and I decide we want to go off to, oh, I don't know, London, Amsterdam, Athens, to name but a few fine, select cities within Great Britain and Europe, in order to pursue the truth behind Avery Tree's murder, we will do it. With the Chief's permission and full reimbursement of expenses, of course."

What Fielding next relayed Shawn never repeated. And, without another word signifying defeat or triumph, Shawn ended the call, handing the phone back to Lassiter.

Carlton trembled in repressed anger. To whom the anger was directed—well, he wasn't sure. "You're going to get me fired."

"By that unnamed virgin cocktail of a cop? I don't think so."

"He's not a—" Having no idea what Spencer had just said, Carlton ignored the sobriquet. "He's a detective as respected as O'Hara and myself."

"No one is as respected as you and Jules, man." Shawn's point at Lassiter was intense, and he was unflagging in his pursuit to be believed. Then, unaware that he'd just released a profound moment upon Lassiter, sipped his soda through a straw till the last of it created a horrible, childish gargled sucking sound from a mound of melting ice cubes.

Carlton again remembered O'Hara's insight. Perhaps it was true, and Shawn did like him, even respected him. For the briefest of moment's, Carlton felt a twinge of guilt for all the times—or most of them, anyway—that he'd been less than kind to Shawn, and disrespected his methods of investigating, unknown as they were. Identically, he warmed a little, too, with such a flush of it that he was glad to pay the bill, get into the open air, and loosen his tie before entering the heat of the car.

"Now where to?"

Lazily, having nothing better to say, Shawn slumped in the seat, delivered his request. "Take me back to the Psych office. I must commune with voices in the crystalline empyrean."

But it was an arduous task, really, sitting in the quiet office without Gus to bother, or Gus to bother him. And Gus's desk, so neat and picture-perfect, like something in an Office Max catalogue, merely provoked Shawn's distress into new, unlimited heights. He turned on the radio. That didn't help, and he was too antsy of mind to sit through cheap, gaudy commercials of car sales and upcoming concerts. Then he turned the radio off, tried the television, but it was worse. In the subsequent silence, Shawn took out his phone, gave a desperate check for missed calls and messages, but nothing—not a thing. Finally, gravitating towards one decision that might, with any luck, abet his concentration rather than annihilate it, Shawn grabbed his laptop, stuffed it into his knapsack, boarded his motorcycle, a little rusty now, and high-tailed it, along back streets and alleys, to Lassiter's.

Instead of setting up office at the bistro table, still littered with the morning paper, Shawn grabbed Brad, the plant in front of the kitchen window, and migrated to his favorite outdoor seat. There, in the centre of the shaded patio table, he set Brad beside the laptop, a bottle of water, his phone, and thus everything was judiciously, conscientiously placed. His computer, named Atlantis (or, at least, the hard drive was), had long ago been stocked with Lassiter's wireless internet. Shawn and Gus had helped the rather computer-incompetent detective set it up, the second afternoon of the Great Move In. Not long into the internet portion of his research, Shawn grabbed a notebook, a pen, twiddled the latter between his fingers, typing gracefully with one hand. It was easy to keep track of what he had to find out. Chico Ramone was number one on a list of—well, only two things so far.

Any time he caught himself staring, it was either to the lemon tree or to Brad. Live things helped him think, helped him focus. Gus had often accused him of staring too long in a blank slate sort of manner, purported to have scared the shit out of Gus as much as tinpot banter about Lassie's comical choice of briefs. Which was, it seemed, going to be the source of many diversions in Shawn's mind for days to come—if not weeks. It was difficult for Shawn to contain absolute concentration on the task at hand, when so much led his mind elsewhere, not the least of which was his best friends' wedding, but the fond remembrances of the night, too. As though it was the last time all four of them would be together in that manner…

Shawn hated to think of drastic changes. Change came to him only in the form of hurricanes and farcical instances explained away by a phony psychic talent. But these two epochs—starting Psych, and Gus and Juliet's marriage—were the first, he knew, in a series of life-altering adventures. Psych was wholly his idea. He happened to be in the right place at the right time. Then it became Gus's, too. That was Shawn's intention all along. "The last job we will ever need." While Gus preferred the constant security of pharmaceutical sales, and Shawn couldn't begrudge him that, Gus had gone on to claim Juliet—another thing that had started off as Shawn's, if Jules could be called a _thing_ for a moment. But, adversely, Shawn hadn't intended to share.

He was not broken-hearted. He was not even significantly dazed. What he had been was jealous. And, God, it shamed him then to think that he'd stooped to something as absurd, as fundamentally boyish, as vulgarly human, as jealousy. He'd stomped around for a week after finding out. If they hadn't told him in the form of a great prank, he would've despised them for months. He even went so far as to believe he would've left Santa Barbara, as his father had predicted at the inception of Psych, and pursued some other job that failed to pan into a lucrative, secure career.

Then Gus locked him in a broom closet at the police station, Carlton leaning on the other side of the door. The two best friends had it out. It was absolute fury. So much so that Shawn shook, that decrepit feeling in his ribs that he hadn't known since he was a kid, or that last moment he knew Abigail was his—he didn't know what it was like, fighting with Gus, not like that. It was real and awkward and raw. And it left an etch in his brain, over and over again, the flagrant repetition: _Gus and Jules… Gus and Jules… Gus and Jules_…

Lassie dragged him out of the closet by the collar of his shirt, literally—at least for the first few steps until co-workers started pointedly leering. They went, just the two of them, for drinks at Tom Blair's Pub. Shawn was anxious and terse, steering conversation to anything but Gus and Juliet. "You're going to have to get used to it," Lassie told him. "It ain't pretty, and it's not what we want, maybe," but he dropped his gaze quickly, "but you have to get used to things happening that you don't want to happen…" Shawn knew he was thinking of Victoria, being divorced when he'd wanted so terribly for it to work out—and why, Shawn wasn't even sure. Lassiter hated to lose, and perhaps losing his wife was an incontestable failure, a blemish on his otherwise pristine and grand career, not as a person, but as a cop. To Lassiter, there wasn't often a difference. Shawn didn't know, didn't care at the time. But he knew they shared one thing: that convoluted feeling, that disparity of feeling, wanting Gus and Jules to be happy with their choice, but identically doused in envy, because relationships were their weakness, the place of constant personal failure…

The memory scattered. Shawn loped around the tiny yard, lined in brush and a low fence, from end to end. He thought of past and present instances, but seemed without a foothold. Sighing in exasperation, then in relief, he pounced on his phone when a call came in. The number was recognized on the display.

"Shawn Spencer, private, all-seeing eye."

"Shawn, where the hell are you?"

"Father, how nice of you to call."

"Don't be patronizing."

He didn't intend to be patronizing, but felt a real interest in speaking to his dad, thankful for the providential distraction. Already, he wondered how he might hunt for ideas, pick his father's brain, so to speak. How impossible was it to pursue Avery Tree? "I'm—I'm not. And I'm not in hell, for once. I'm at Lassiter's."

"Still? Good God, Shawn. Please don't call me this weekend to ask me to help you move in over there, all right? I'm busy. I've got plans."

"No one doubts your ability to have plans, Dad. And no one's moving in with anyone." Shawn eyed Brad on the table, contemplating what it would look like stored in the side window of his little place. "My stuff is still here, and— We've got this case."

"The Avery Tree investigation, I know."

"Ugh! Dad! Please!" Shawn smacked his own forehead, coincidentally falling into the chair. A dangerous pain erupted over his eye, as it tended to do whenever Henry Spencer took it upon himself to _consult_, though he no longer worked as much, no longer haunted the police station in a bland suit. "Who did you talk to?"

"The chief. She wondered why you didn't go into the station with Lassiter."

"I don't know—"

"You left him to do all the paperwork."

"He's a cop. He gets paid to get ink stains on his fingers and painful paper cuts. I don't get paid unless I sit around on my ass and think."

"And how's that going?"

Shawn tilted forward, still rubbing his brow, though the pain had lessened now that the worst was out. "I'm thinking till it hurts. I need a vacation."

"Ha!" A sarcastic laugh, certainly. "I'll bet you do." But that sounded exceptionally less acidic. "This is your twelfth case in five months. And, by the sound of it, your hardest case in the last eight months. What did you find out about Avery Tree?"

"Nothing—nothing substantial. What's going on at the department?"

"I can't compare notes, Shawn," Henry said, as frustrated as Shawn but exhibiting it differently. "I don't have any notes. If I had notes, then we could talk! All I know is that Avery Tree probably isn't who he said he was."

"But he's still Avery Tree. His mother wasn't his mother, I know that, but he's still Avery Tree."

"He claimed he was. I don't know… I think you should follow up on the girl, Summer Preacher."

"Yeah, I can't find out anything about her either. She dropped a name to me, Chico Ramone, when we met her at the crime scene. I can't find out who he is, other than some Latino singer. I found a video of his on You Tube. Can't be the guy she meant. What was Lassie doing?"

"Vick hinted that he might be on his way to Tree's last known employer. Before he went private."

Shawn didn't particularly care for the sound of Lassiter stumbling his way through the urban underbelly of drug-pushers and money lenders. "What are you thinking, Dad? Prostitution?"

"Oh I think we're going way beyond prostitution, Shawn. Don't you? Anyway, I was just calling to make sure you hadn't dropped off the face of the planet. I gotta go."

"Something in the oven?"

"Cube steak in the skillet that needs to be turned before it burns, if you must know."

"Indeed I must. That's a kind of a hefty lunch."

"It's almost five, Shawn."

Shocked that the hours had dribbled by so fast, stealing all sense of hourly awareness, Shawn refused to bungle an excuse, and dived back to the important subject. "Lassiter's going with Detective Fielding, right? I mean—he wouldn't be stupid enough to go alone. No one would be that stupid."

"Well, you know Lassiter."

That was it? That was the great paternal comfort he was to receive? "Thanks for calling, Dad. I hope your cube steak isn't dry and you don't choke on it."

Hanging up without another word, Shawn gathered his paraphernalia, dumped the knapsack in the chair right inside the kitchen—and froze, full of feeling.

His sandals were under the table, and something about it made toss-salad of reality, split it into infinite portions. It was like déja vu. His ugly old flip-flops discarded under the table, his knapsack in the chair, his favorite mug next to Lassiter's on the counter beside the sink… An array of unrelated things that made up the whole of his life at that very moment—just that moment—and he was pleased, calmed; he chipped a fraction off the marble statue of loneliness.

But he dived out the door, yanked it as close to the frame as possible, and locked it. Still, the sense of commonplace activities bombarded him. Even swinging onto the motorbike and making his way to the station from Lassiter's dinky neighborhood must have been completed a hundred times. He failed to determine the familiarity of the feeling. It was too fleeting, and his need too extreme, to reach the station before Lassiter heroically (stupidly, Shawn corrected in his head) went off to pursue the criminous associates of Avery Tree.

Overcome by the sight of Lassiter sitting at his desk, casually breezing through papers in a file, Shawn might have made a bigger show than he'd intended—and, with him, drama was the crux of his profession.

He flung his palms against the end of the desk, and, shouting so that the whole floor might hear: "Don't do it, Lassie!"

For the first time in his professional relationship with Shawn, Lassiter's face reddened in true embarrassment. Not the kind bred of anger, brought on by one of Spencer's showy gimmicks, but the kind of a burgeoning, fragile friendship.

Shawn interpreted the abrupt stillness of officers in earshot, and, too, noticed Lassiter's fright. Quickly, he covered for the indecency. "Don't bring around the cloud to rain on my parade! I like parades. Parades are good."

When commotion resumed, Shawn tilted forward. Possessing enough moxie to willfully disregard yet another tricky occurrence between them, Shawn hurdled straight to the point. He just wished it was so easy to reach the point of the case.

"You can't just rush off into an investigation without, you know, consulting me and stuff. Or at least buying me enough alcohol to pass out and then have your way with suspected criminals."

"What in the hell are you referencing now, Spencer? Haven't you got some voodoo witch's death to solve or something?"

"Look—" He huffed, searched for a spare chair—there was one at O'Hara's desk but no way—he stole one from Detective Arlette nearby, but he wasn't in the process of sitting, only standing. "Do you mind if I—? Okay. Great. Thanks." The chair successfully wheeled beside Lassiter's, Shawn reclaimed his grave demeanor, fingers laced in front of his chin.

"Look—we've been through a whole lot in the last couple of," he hesitated, the idea of mere days signifying but a sliver, and he immediately, if not seamlessly, divagated, "couple of years. Gus and Juliet, and—so on, so forth, ad nauseam, et cetera. So don't, just don't, right now or ever in the future, start that crap with me again." Shawn said it in a subdued manner, relinquishing his need to dramatize, to the absolute bewilderment of Lassiter. "Don't start playing coy and sarcastic and just—just plain malicious with me. Our best friends ran off and married each other, and it's like they didn't even ask us if it was okay! Did they ask us? No, they did not. And we've got a dead guy in a swimming pool who, according to my father, of all people in the frickin' world, may be attached to something a whole lot bigger than what we've seen here in our dinky, strangely murderous little Cabot Cove kind of town. You're the Sheriff Amos Tupper to my Jessica Fletcher. If you don't start acting like it, someone else is going to die before we have time to figure out who's behind this—or what's behind it."

For a single instant, Shawn feared that Lassiter was going to raise a fist and sock him one right in the jaw. It wouldn't have been out of line. Shawn wouldn't have questioned it. He would've been cocky and said he'd deserved it. In truth, he felt like he ought to be punched hard, punched right in the gut, till all the wind and vice was forced out of him, for saying what he had. Seconds later, everything he'd declared became disjointed, the subject of many of that evening's silent cringes of regret. It reminded him why he wasn't so often open and honest with people. Lies were cheap, thin coverings over his unnatural mentality. The truth was a thick blanket, broken in but neglected, and when too close to him itched his skin.

Lassiter was sure a bloom of sweat was very visible on his brow. Again, the tie strangled him. His throat fattened. His tongue dried up. He bent purposefully over papers, the desk, anything to distract from Spencer's stern eyes. Whose emotions were wrenched now? "I wasn't going, um, ahem, anywhere alone."

Shawn let out a whimper. Category 1. "Where's Detective Faking?"

"Fielding?" Brisk was Carlton's correction, should Spencer's obvious misnomer begin a giggle he couldn't suppress. "I sent him to investigate Avery Tree's apartment. You didn't find out anything, did you?"

Dejectedly, Shawn shook his head. He'd stared into space, time, memory for hours, looking for that missing link. "I'm sure the maid and Felicity Tree were hired, but I don't know by whom."

"We can't waste our time sniffing out clues that won't lead us anywhere."

Shawn nodded, seeing that Lassie had wittingly tied in a piece of the monologue. Time was to be wisely spent. "Well, come on," Shawn tapped the end of the desk, louder and louder with each smack, "let's go do something! Let's get out there! Yeah! Woo!"

"All right," Lassiter waved a calming hand, finally rising. "Let's go check on Summer Preacher. See if she'd had her memory made any miraculous leaps since last night. Take this." He handed Spencer Avery Tree's file. Browsing through it, Shawn's frown increased: it was thin, the skimpiest of information, and the original report filed from the night of the incident. "Did you ride your motorcycle over here?"

"I was going to teleport, but would you believe it's broken again? And Jimmy Olson wouldn't give me a lift. It's in the garage."

"Wait. The garage?"

Meandering by Chief Vick's office, Shawn, distracted, nearly forgot to answer. He'd rather rampage in there and demand to know what she'd told his father. It seemed like the tawdry, dark kind of case, covered in proverbial fairytale vines, that both Spencer men might be willing to hack out of the way. Henry Spencer, an occasional consultant, deliberately shied from becoming deeply involved, but knew when to tell his son a plausible conjecture or two—maybe even ten on any given case. The roar of Henry's wisdom made Shawn's head swim.

"Yeah, I parked it with the other confiscated vehicles. It's fine, Lassie. Don't worry about it." He scrambled out of the thoughtful state the second the file disappeared from his hands.

"Will you get your motorcycle out of holding, Spencer?" He said it with a noticeable stop after every word. Glaring and fuming and hating that Spencer disregarded regulations as much as he did lunch checks. "Now?"

"But then I'd have to take it all the way back to—"

_Oh, my God_, thought Shawn. _This is, like, awkward moment number six. We can't have more than six in a span of twenty-four hours._

"My place, and it's clear on the other side of—like—three blocks over, and—we should really—"

Lassiter did not even deign to respond. Only when they were in Lassiter's car was conversation attempted a second time, strictly about the case, the whereabouts of Summer Preacher, and what she might have to offer now that time had passed.

"Are we so sure her mother is really her mother?" This query, too, met silence's impasse. "She was supposed to stay with her mother, and maybe—" Shawn let the statement ebb into diverse, scattered, unfinished conclusions.

As they approached the alleged home of Summer Preacher's mother, Lassiter grumbled and Shawn gaped. Theirs was not the only police car, marked or unmarked, to decorate the avenue and home's driveway. They got out, amid the rush and brusqueness of a new investigation, and met Buzz McNab.

"Oh, hello, Detective." His congenial smile widened. "Hey, Shawn."

Shawn said nothing, grimacing to keep the setting sun out of his eyes, his mind from reeling into possibilities. Getting to the bottom of it was really Lassie's position. On the ground. All fours. Sniffing. Shawn rubbed his face, exhausted, restless, that terrible contradiction of everything coming and going again, swinging through him like a revolving door… Awkward. Jules. Gus. Lassie. Home. Avery Tree hates his parents. His parents hated him. Six jobs before left high school. Shawn couldn't even remember how many he'd had… Awkward. God, this was so awkward.

"Let me guess," Shawn interrupted the tedious dialogue between McNab and Lassiter, "Summer Preacher's gone, and her mother's nowhere to be found. How close am I, really? Don't spare my feelings, Buzz."

McNab—he was not awkward. Crap, Shawn continued to think. Six feet and five inches, and he wasn't awkward? But he was the only man who respectfully looked down at Carlton Lassiter. Lassie and his mean looks, his long legs, his funky wrist that clicked when he turned it.

"Yeah, nail right on the head again, Shawn," said McNab.

"Of course. Dammit." Ashamed, bewildered, frustrated, and missing Gus and Juliet so much that he thought a rib might break—if it was possible to break a rib from excessive heartache, Shawn leveled his forehead against Lassiter's shoulder. It was there. It even obliged for a moment, before giving one lift. Freshly awakened, Shawn sighed, hooked his thumbs to the top of his belt, examined briefly the home's exterior, the city soldiers, like suited ants, marching in and out. "Can we take a look inside, anyway? I want to look inside. I feel that the forces need me to look inside."

It smelled like Chinese take-out, like sweet and sour chicken and duck sauce. A nameless pill bottle had been found in the medicine cabinet, taken away by Forensics, and rounded out a brief list of useful items. The house was, like the Trees' place in Ventura, sterile, formulaic, and everything smelled of bleach and everything was plain.

"Like a hotel," Lassiter said as they stepped out of the foyer.

Exactly like a hotel. Shawn was massaging his forehead—he had gained such a headache—what had he eaten all day?—and quickly routed potential roads left to explore. "You guys are going to check to see who owns these houses, right? This place and the house in Ventura?"

"We are working on it."

"I'm sensing a stockade. No, wait…" What was the damn word he was hunting for? Stockade? Barricade? He decided dumbing himself up a little was always applicable. "A big, you know," he used hand gestures, "tall thing that you can't get by. No—not Kevin Peter Hall. What is it?"

Lassiter explained that, last he'd heard, the company that owned the house in Ventura was attached to another company—"attached to another company," Lassiter swayed his hand: his wrist did that click, "and you get the idea."

"This isn't going to be something we can solve right away," the alternative meaning goaded him into sharing a brief look with Lassiter, "is it?"

Equably, as though they'd planned it from the moment they set out from Summer Preacher's fake house, Shawn gathered his chattels from about Lassiter's domicile. He didn't have it in him to remove the mug from the sink, preferring to leave it there. He said farewell to Brad, shook a leaf in camaraderie, and barely remembered to grab his flip-flops from under the table. It seemed a certainty that Lassiter would ask for the house key back, only he didn't, and did not even interrogate Shawn about how he got in. Lassiter moved his mind along other, less travelled paths. Summer Preacher, Avery Tree, the illogical occurrences from Ventura to Santa Barbara that connoted absolutely nothing. These were messed up kids pushed into something so sickening that it had frightened them. Lassiter reached the conclusion pulling alongside the converted launderette.

"Well, thanks for the ride," Shawn said, wrestling to lift his bag from his feet to his lap, eager to leave so as to avoid Awkward Moment Eta. Lassiter's smile sprouted like a vibrant begonia, there and gone as Shawn leapt out of the car.

Lassiter started pulling away.

Shawn entered Mee Mee's Fluff *n Fold in a slow, meandering, reluctant way.

But something ignited in Carlton. That ill-fated, star-crossed sensation had hit him several times before. There. In the gut. Below the sternum, a little below the belt. It had something to do with Shawn. He'd never cared about Shawn, except to prove him wrong, except to win arguments over him. Why the whirling intestinal feeling now?

Shawn dumped his backpack on the end of the unmade bed. Home. Sweet. Ignoble. Lonely. Home. The sack failed to land properly and soon tumbled to the floor. Before picking it up, he felt a flicker of electricity. A vagrant's unfamiliar scent filled his nostrils. A stranger was there.

He rotated upwards. Slow. Meandering. Reluctant. His hands raised. His eyes deadpan, stationary. "Crap… Really? Really?" Turning around with a flagrant show of displeasure mixed with a heavy dose of boredom, Shawn faced the armed robber. Well, at first glance of hands, face—he wore no mask—and 1980's revolver, he was no armed robber at all, but a hired thug.

"What's the matter, psychic?"

Oh, goody, it talks, too. The day just couldn't get better. No. He couldn't think that. Gus. Jules. God, he couldn't jinx them…

"Didn't you predict that I was coming?"

"No," Shawn laughingly replied, "no, I sure as heck didn't." Then Shawn averted his look from the thug to Lassiter, poised and gun at the ready. "But he did."

Wrenching around, the thug was kissed with the butt-end of Lassiter's gun. Just enough to send him straight to the ground. The weapon fell out of his grip: Shawn kicked it to the wall, beneath the clothes-line closet, as Lassiter cuffed the interloper, citing the right to silence that was duly ignored, judging by the amount of unrepeatable language.

Automatically, Shawn took out his phone, dialed directly to dispatch—Speed Dial #8, seriously—and said he needed a squad car to come out and help bring in "an idiot" that Detective Lassiter had just taken into custody.

In minutes—it felt like an hour to Shawn—the incident ended. Chief Vick and McNab were there, concerned, fretting. Vick was oddly mothering, imploring Shawn to call his father, and Shawn said he would—later, later—couldn't the woman grasp the word later? McNab was fraternal, glad to rile Shawn's good humor with vice-like grips of his shoulder every so often, with his giant, extra strong mitts. He was like the Brawny paper towel man, and wondered how much plaid he wore in his off-duty hours, if he'd ever chopped down trees…

Shawn was no more grateful for the phlegmatic, solacing silence that followed, when the two of them stood together, one on one, in the disarranged place that was entirely Shawn's world. His reality. Tiny, cramped, things not where they should be, not where he'd left them at all. Everything was out of place. Everything wasn't as it should be. Reality layered over reality, only not lined up right. The overlay was off. The colors beneath bled through. The borders were doubled.

"Thanks for waiting, Lassie," Shawn started, breaking the trembling ice between them. They hadn't said a word to one another since Lassiter's demanding "Are you all right, Shawn?" immediately after the yet unnamed assailant had been properly handcuffed.

"Yeah." Lassiter inspected sentiments, waiting for revulsion, disgust, the atavistic fears to come into play, but it never happened. Hate seemed drowned in gutters. "No problem."

What would happen in the next few days might be uncertain. They had to dig through muck, grime, scrub their way to the bottom of what had happened, if it was related—and if it wasn't related, then why—_why?_

But Shawn knew one thing. With his thumb he gestured to his wrecked and ransacked abode. "I'll just um—grab a few—"

"Yeah."

Lassiter nodded, patted down the back of his hair. The movement lifted his suit coat and showed the holster, the weapon underneath, the flash of brass that was his badge. Shawn thought it would be Awkward Moment Eta, but it was more like the first appearance of Zen. Serenity shadowing tumult. Hell began to freeze over. Pretty soon, pigs would fly and it would rain cats and dogs. It didn't matter when the storm broke, if it ever did, or what happened after. For just a pure instant, Shawn felt at peace, turning about to grab whatever he could for an indefinite stay at Lassie's place. When Carlton wended through the debris, he wiggled his fingers at Shawn, stooped and prepared to carry a heap of shirts and jeans.

At Lassiter's, the sentimental, the maudlin—the déja vu mixed with euphoria, backhanded by dread—whipped Shawn so fast that he hadn't a moment to say hello. Motions were gone through: Shawn's clothes dropped in a forest of patterns and denim in the corner of his room; he crept across the bed and hit the pillows, half-listening to Lassiter spouting off what they would do tomorrow; he nodded, blinked, nodded again. Still, it came, boundless and ceaseless, the feeling he'd been here before. What was it? The vortex of something. An abyss. A rainbow of a beckoning abyss.

Lassiter's hand stretched out to him. Jokingly, too tired to care if anything he did made least bit of sense, Shawn slapped it, held it, slid his hand out of it and back beneath the pillowcase.

"No, Shawn," Carlton sighed, jostled Shawn at the shoulder, "give me your phone."

"Dude," his voice croaked, worse than gravel, but like sleet meeting macadam and left there to rot, "why?"

"Because if Guster calls you at one in the morning I don't want you left holding the bag. I'll talk to him."

"It's fine, Lassie. Go—go do whatever it is you do this time of night. Watch reruns of _Cheers_ or the news or something." Shawn attempted to wave Lassiter out the door, leave him wallowing in the distorted definition of peace that scrambled his sensitivity to galvanized shreds.

He nearly had it. Looking up at Lassiter's brooding presence, he nearly had it. The beckoning rainbow over the desirable abyss, it had a name. Its indigenous syllables scraped along the smoothest portion of Shawn's tongue, yet remained intangible.

"Don't you do this to me, Spencer. Give me the phone."

As Shawn lobbed limbs about to search for his phone, Carlton went on, saying what was on his mind, and gracing the edge of Shawn's.

"I don't know what the hell's going on, but we're either in shit so deep that our necks are sticking out, or we're so self-involved that we can't tell the two instances are not related." He felt the cool, green vinyl cover of the iPhone slap against his skin. "Fine. Thank you. And goodnight."

But, before he left, he saw Shawn's shoes were still on, and, never asking for permission, merely yanked them off and let them fall over the end of the bed, to the floor, hitting the new pile of old clothes.

Shawn, listening in that fabulous, carefree, lightweight place between uncontrollable sleep and steerable dreams, found, at last, what he'd been searching for. The feeling came to him an interminable flashes of faces in his past: Abigail, Juliet, that girl who sold rice candy in that funky store in Miami, the one he met at a hotel in Rotterdam; and even wound through an assortment of unknown faces, met for an instant and desired off and on for the reminder of his lifetime: the blonde in the Paradise Bar, the red-headed babe in the pink bikini, and once that finely-chiseled supermodel dude that bought him a drink and kissed like sunsets…

There was comfort, paranoia, weakness, persistence, want, reluctance, ignorance and knowledge, blandness and tastefulness—contradictions forever holding him to it. The one it. The thing that kept coming back to him.

Lassiter's house, the lemon tree he couldn't name yet, Brad the happy little plant, his sandals under the table, his mug and Lassiter's side by side like their shampoos in the shower… His respect… His idealism… The beckoning cave. The rainbow out of sunbeams and cool mist. What he wanted, but what he didn't need. Comfort. Weakness. Paranoia.

Every one an ingredient necessary for falling in love.


	3. Part the Third

Part the Third

-x-

"Wake up, Goose."

Vitality, first a trickle then a sudden cataract, streamed through Shawn. Limbs loosed in the sweetness of deep slumber, he rotated, snarled in sheets, and rubbed an eye. 'Mom? Mom, is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me, Calvin Klein. Now, get up, would you? I don't have all day."

The numbness receded from his hands, his warm feet, and, untangling sheets around his body as he moved, Shawn roved, listed into the patchwork world of the living. Upright, disoriented, feeling feverish, he didn't, for a moment, know where he was. There was a far wall, painted a blue akin to sorrowful seas and lost ships. A built-in bookcase behind the closed door. A white and navy-striped chair that always looked for someone to sit in it. A tiny closet with a narrow wooden door. The bed he'd slept in, high off the ground and becomingly old-fashioned. A bedside cabinet. Another bookcase held college textbooks: _Fundamentals of Criminology… Advanced Physics… 100 Years of Russian Literature_… God, what sort of world had he woken into?

"Mom, what year is it? Please tell me it's not 1985. If you tell me it's 1985, I want a box of Bugles and my Transformers sleeping bag."

"Oh, if it were, you'd be late meeting Gus for adventures, and I'd be late for work. But it isn't. Are you feeling all right?' Maddie touched his hair, thick and wavy but not baby-soft as she remembered. "You feel a little warm. Maybe you'd better go back to sleep. I'll tell Carlton not to bother you."

_Carlton_. "Lassiter," he mumbled aloud, filled with grief and something horrendously exhilarating left behind in dreams. A montage of yesterday's events caught him up to the present. "You're leaving?"

"Flight's in a couple of hours. I wanted to stop by and see how you were doing. Oh, Shawn, honestly. Why do all the bad men pick on my boy?"

"My irresistibly debonair lifestyle."

"I don't think that's it. But I get scared just thinking about how scared you must've been."

Shawn didn't know what to say, whelmed by the concern of his mother, and sad, too, that she was leaving. Everyone did eventually. And he felt like a snob just thinking it.

"Are you sure you're all right? Your father didn't even tell me what happened at your place last night—he didn't tell me until this morning. He knew I'd just wait up and worry. I'm glad you weren't hurt. You could've been." Maddie said it as though the thought hadn't occurred to him, not even when he faced the barrel of a chinked-up revolver. She picked up the first pair of jeans she saw in a pile on the floor, tossed them at him. "Get dressed and meet me outside, okay?"

Shawn weakly nodded, befuddled, torn between sleep and anxiety. Wasn't there a far more pleasant event to remember first thing in the morning? Now he was stuck with the image of a pudgy-faced thug.

In the kitchen, Maddie claimed the tea Carlton had whisked up for her. The placid, maternal smile gave him a sense he'd accomplished something. It was gratitude enough for him.

"If you hadn't been there—"

"He probably would've found a way out of it," he insisted. "Shawn's the luckiest S.O.B. I've ever met in my life. And I've met Carol Channing." The name seemed to put things into perspective for Maddie, who was not entirely sure he was kidding.

"It's just—with Gus and Juliet getting married, now they're out of the country—and he's had way too many cases lately—he's tired. He's not himself."

"Who is?" But he made the mistake of meeting her keen gaze. The superficial half-grin, a touch considerate and a bit wicked, slanted, evaporated, and he dimmed from the inside out as though she'd shut off the switch to him.

"Shawn's usually so very— He just is who he is—most of the time. And that could be anything. He's impossible to stop. Like a Titan. A typhoon. I don't know… I don't think I ever did know, really. But you're good for him. He never did have a lot of friends. Acquaintances by the dozens, by the hundreds, from here to the Carpathians. But friends? Just one, I think. I always dreaded what would happen if Gus got married. I didn't want Shawn to feel alone. Alone isn't the right word, either. Isolated, maybe that's what I'm thinking."

"Shawn is an island," paraphrased Lassiter for her. God, what a fitting image. Shawn, an island. Meek and destitute, hanging on the horizon out in the middle of the sea. Where everyone could see him from their paradise mainland, but no one could get to him.

"He thinks he is. That's what frightens me. He won't," for a faltering second, Maddie didn't have a grasp of what Shawn wouldn't do; her son, capable of so much, the burning of genius, the paragon of entertainment, and he couldn't do this one human thing, "he won't build bridges."

Shawn had tugged on his jeans seconds ago, and had routed himself in a rudimentary position of eavesdropping. What he heard from his dulcet-voiced mother inoffensively startled. He let his head fall to the frame of the door before noisily stepping into the kitchen, strategically announcing his presence.

Fresh from bed, a dainty pillow crease punched into the fleshiest part of his cheek, Shawn kissed his mother hello, ignored the temptation to comedically inflict the same embrace upon Lassie, and entered the typical robust discourse that laughed, told nothing about himself, but, adventitiously, let their attention fix on him. He forwent all attempts to give him coffee, settling instead on red bush vanilla tea.

Shawn took his mother on a meander about the circumference of the garden, all numinous and brilliant in the morning sunlight.

"You sure you're all right?"

"Mom, I'm fine. Quit your motherly worrying. This," he paused near his favorite little nook between a couple of misshaped arborvitae, and touched a shiny leaf in front of him, "is an honest to God lemon tree. Do you believe that? Lassie will have lemons. I want him to take these out, though." He wound his hand to the crippled arborvitae. "They don't really go with everything else, and we could put in something really nice. Like more of those orange flowers over there. Or that crazy vine stuff, whatever you call it."

"A vine? Shawn, would you listen to yourself? I didn't realize you were so unhappy with your little laundromat. You should really take a vacation before you make poor Carlton go to the plant nursery with you. I don't know who those guys are or what case you're working on right now—"

"It's fine, Mom." He knew it was his only expressible thing of value. Fine, like sorry, was so easy to say, so hard to give. To be truly fine, to be truly sorry, to forgive truly… "It's fine." Repeated for her until she knew he meant it. "It's just a case. We don't even know if the guy had anything to do with—"

"Don't try to find out. Let them handle it. It's their job."

The expression of concern and heartache on her face caused him to loop his arms about her shoulders, press her sun-warmed hair into his chin, and squeeze—let go—squeeze a second time. "I can't ignore it. Who knows who he is?" He held her at arms' length, searching look finally triumphant. "He could be another prank of Gus and Jules. Well, that'd be taking it a bit far, even for them. Sunrise weddings, yeah, I should've seen that one coming. I promise, after all of this, I'm going to take a really, real, real vacation!"

"Let me know when you want to," Maddie said, returning the pressure of his hand in hers as they entered the side yard, "and I'll give you some extra spending money."

"That," he went in to kiss her cheek, appreciative of her again, "is the sweetest thing ever. You haven't given me an allowance for being a good boy in I don't know how long."

She feigned the admonitory portion of her slap across the graphic of his t-shirt. "I didn't give it to you then because you were a good boy, either."

A familiar rumble of a truck caused Shawn to frown, Maddie to groan, as it parked in the driveway. In a baseball cap, loud tropical-print shirt, shorts and boat shoes declared in the weather-forecasting ability of Henry Spencer, that it was going to be a hot and muggy July day. Maddie tucked Shawn's hands into hers.

"Well, there he is: your father. Early as always. He dropped me off and said he was going to the station. Shawn."

"Mom."

"You know what I'm going to say."

"Am I psychic enough to read my own mother's thoughts? H'mm." His hands thus positioned for the bettering of clearing his umpteen senses, he thought the message decoded. "'Be happy and try not to die.'"

She snickered, tried to hold it in, and moved their joined hands back and forth. "Be serious for a second, will you?"

"But that's the gist, yes-no? Be happy. Goes without saying. I do my best. I smile a lot and wear fabulous underwear. Maybe you're right, anyway, and I didn't like—don't like—I can't stand that they're gone. Mom, they're _not here_."

"But they're coming back, Goose."

"It just means that everything I was doing before makes me feel ten times lonelier now that I have to do it without them. And Lassie's all right. Once he gets the stick out of his ass, he's not bad. Plus, you know," he gesticulated behind him, "he has a lemon tree. Seriously. How cool is that? You know what my place has? Mice. And sugar ants. And traffic noise. It's right on the bus line. And a sidewalk for a yard. That's not really—not really the point… As for the try not to die part, well, again—yeah, I've considered that. It's always been my number one goal every day. Right between "Get out of bed" and 'Go back to bed.'"

Maddie had only the option of believing him. She patted his hands, nodded, intimating that it was okay, and incubated the mournfulness inside until she was far from sight.

"Shawn," Henry peregrinated like an angry hawk on a retrieval mission, across the lawn, to his son, "your motorcycle's in the carport. I picked it up for you this morning."

"Wow." Shawn glanced at his mother, then to his father, in dumb awe. "That was exceptionally nice of you, Father. What brought on this burst of generosity? Does a new _Queer Eye_ episode air this week?"

"I was already at the station, talking to Chief Vick about the guy who busted into your place last night."

Lassiter, holding tighter than ever to the coffee mug, sidled into the familial trio. Shawn watched for signs of distress. Lassie hardly ever was so late to get to work, constantly there ahead of the chief, ahead of nearly everyone. It was already five after nine. Lassiter was usually at his desk at least an hour by that time.

"What'd you find out, Henry?"

"You can find out for yourself," Henry responded, sure to say it at Carlton before switching to Shawn. "You, on the other hand, Shawn—Vick wants you out of this. If you so much as show up at the station today, she's going to throw you in an interrogation room."

"Oh, please," scoffed Shawn, too tired to process this unctuous, second-hand dismissal. "She knows I totally prefer the hall closet! And, anyway, you're forgetting that I'm like Karen's cuddly teddy bear—of—of absolute psychicness. She needs me."

"She needs you to stay home. If she wants to talk to you, she'll call you."

"Dad…" But it wouldn't do to broach the topic again, not with his father, though he might have better success asking Lassiter to intervene on his behalf. "What am I supposed to do all day? Sit around and play video games?"

"It worked when you were a kid."

"But it's so boring now!"

"I don't know, Shawn, maybe you should take a bath and clear your head."

Shawn's lips flapped in his attempt to discredit this idea, and mock his dad for suggesting it.

Henry swiped his hands through the air, stormed off, calling Maddie to him.

"Well, this is it, Goose. I'm glad I got to see you again." Her sigh, extended, languid, blew against his hair as she hugged him. "You want my advice? Do what he asks you to do. And, if that doesn't work, well," her soft palm, smelling like Jergens and L'air de Temps, skimmed down the outline of his face, "sometimes retracing your steps helps."

He was left wondering how that would work, observing as she shook hands with Lassiter. Their good-byes were those of equals, contemporaries, then, for a surprising ending, Shawn saw the faintest hint of appreciation on his mother's part. She treated Lassiter like she'd treated Gus for over thirty years. The cork popped right out of the drain in Shawn's emotional carafe. Instead of filling him with nausea, it filled him with butterflies, frantically laboring to make the salty water for the tears he wouldn't shed. What was wrong with him? His best friends up and married, and so what? It happens to everyone who ever had a best friend, ever lucky enough to have two. Maybe they were right. He was exhausted. He should step away, let the fine SBPD do it their way. They were his friends, too—his equals in some ancient measurement, to be sure, if they were not true contemporaries.

He saw his mother into the truck. Henry bobbed his head, knowing glare latched to him. "I'll think about it," Shawn said, meaning to denounce the antic of bathing as decidedly anti-masculine. Then, speaking to his mother, he said the same thing: "I'll think about it."

At last, they drove off, and the truck's chrome bumper flashed in the sunlight as it took the turn from the avenue. Shawn heaved an enormous breath, till it crushed the very bottom of his lungs. Alone with Lassie, he was horribly tense in the limbs, fraught in mind with all the things to say that he hadn't said last night.

"Thanks," he eventually muttered, self-consciously, to Lassiter's chagrin.

"Don't mention it."

"You have an instinct for that sort of thing. If you hadn't come back—"

"He was probably on his way out, anyhow. It doesn't take much to see that your place is filled with crap, and that your mouse traps don't even seem in working condition."

"Huh." It was Shawn's early-morning laugh. "What made you come back? Was it just that all-powerful, superhero instinct kicking in?"

"I guess it was." Clearly, the four words were meant to imply an immediate dismissal of the subject. Out the rear pocket of his trousers, Carlton released the iPhone, handed it to Shawn. "Guster called. Not at one in the morning, more like three. I gave him the rundown. He wanted to high-tail it home, but I told O'Hara that everything is under as much control as we can get right now. She'll explain this to Guster. Well," a bitter cheerfulness in his inflection failed to bring happiness to either of them, "I need to get to my desk. Or punch the living daylights out of the idiot who broke into your place. But do us both a favor, will you? Don't come into the station. Don't leave the house."

"Is that one favor or two?"

"Shawn, come on. Quit splitting hairs. You know this is important. Until we find out what's going on…" He changed tactics. The tricky bit was finding out when, not how, he had learned what Spencer listened to and what he did not. How had all of this happened? "Stay home. Do some research. Talk to Bob."

"Brad."

"Brad. Right. Sorry. Ask him. Maybe he knows where we can pick up leads on Summer Preacher and Avery Tree. Because I don't have any damn idea. Preacher's flown the coop. Tree's dead. And our list of eyewitnesses pretty much ends there. So come on, Spencer, get in touch with your psychic inner self or whatever."

"I'm feeling a little fragile right now, Lassie. I can't just roll them into my throne room and demand they obey me. It doesn't work like that!"

"Then make it!"

"I can't!"

"You have to do something!"

"Quit yelling at me and maybe I will!"

"You quit yelling first!"

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

Shawn was either going to kick Lassie in the shins, or prowl into the house, being sure to slam the door behind him. Instead, his knees suddenly buckled, and, stooped, he ran his hands over his hair. His head started to hurt again. The cowl of lies, probably. Lack of sleep. Exhaustion. Awkwardness. This was getting him nowhere. Still—Summer Preacher, Avery Tree. A connection. A pill bottle on the ground. Something. Anything. What was obvious, and why was the obvious missing?

Then his head stopped hurting, and it was his sinuses, around his eyes. He pressed the balls of his palms into them. Lassiter's shadow moved, causing Shawn to regard old loafers in grass blades.

"Just go to work, would you? Before I strangle you with that god-awful tie." Shawn flipped the end of a mustard-yellow, abstract, paisley monstrosity. "I can't believe you're wearing that. It looks like pineapple and goat feces mixed in a blender and poured over decent silk. Wait." Shawn pinched Lassiter's shirt cuff, holding him still. "Can I use your super-expensive, eucalyptus-scented extra-foamy spa body wash? And don't tell me you don't own anything like that, because, well—" He held his free hand beside his head, taunting for a moment with his eyes, before returning to the previous desolation, a significant percent of it magnificently genuine. And that was something to relish.

Lassiter wrenched his arm free, grunting, then taking out his keys. From behind, he heard Shawn give a "Hey, Lass, was that a yes? I'm going to drink the rest of your coffee! I'll root through your dirty magazine collection! Lassie? Okay, but call me later! Bye, sweetheart! Have a good day at work!"

Where anger might have been had Spencer said it two weeks prior to the wedding, Lassiter noted the significant absence of gloominess. In its place, a bubble of amusement, manifesting as a snicker and a nugatory shake of the head.

"A bath. Yeah. I can do this."

Shawn stood, towel wrapped at his middle and nothing else on, in front of the claw-footed tub where he had, as recently as the day before yesterday, successfully stood beneath the hot shower stream of water. Now, the water line rose and rose in the tub, and he had no idea how high it would need to be. Five inches, six? Baths should come with instruction manuals and water-level guidelines. Maybe that should be in his book, the one he intended to share with Gus. Along with how to sucker babes into dining with you—how to build a tree house with internet access and a wet bar—how to con your way into a job you love to do… It was going to be a fantastic book. One part confessional. One part pure fiction. Just like the teased tattersall remnant of his bizarre, roller-coaster life.

He'd conned his way into house-hunting with Lassiter, too. He'd started out harboring much more benign feelings: What he'd wanted to do was help Lassie, and that was all. Unburden him a little bit, if it could be done. Take some of the pressure off, if it could be done. Shawn had stumbled upon buyers for Lassiter's too-big house, a young couple that were related to one of Henry Spencer's old Lodge buddies. But that left finding a suitable residence. Shawn had never put so much effort into anything as he did finding that damn house. Gus had laughed. Mom thought he was living vicariously. Juliet thought it was really sweet. She, of the three who'd expressed an opinion, had probably been closest to describing Shawn's sentiments. It wasn't that his mom was wrong, not entirely. He'd lived from place to place, in hovels, in swells, in derelicts, on boats—once in a big barn in Michigan but that was only for a summer research project. How true it was, though, that he was sick of it all. The nomadic existence. Living from paycheck to paycheck. He'd learned so much while doing a thousand different jobs in a hundred different cities, but what had it taught him about himself, and what had he really gleaned from it?

So then, the idea fell into his lap, and he clung to it. "Fine, Spencer," Lassiter had said, standing in the lawn in front of the old place, frazzled beneath his pale, placid exterior. The realtor was tacking on the 'SOLD' sign behind him. "Now you've successfully sold my place," he talked through his teeth, that fake smile of his, "you can find me somewhere to live—and you have two weeks."

He was working three cases, two of them "cold" and one of them boiling hot. But it was nothing to Juliet's wedding planning, her attachment to Lassiter and his six cases. With Gus taking on another route, the scuttlebutt whispers indicating a promotion in his future, Shawn was the only one with the time to tackle the tremendous hassle and morally deflating task of looking at houses. He let the realtors believe whatever they wanted about his relationship with Lassiter, but his prime realtor, Rebecca Dijon-West, thought he was some sort of personal assistant. It was she that had suggested not having a garage, though Shawn had made it seem like his. "What is it he's looking for?" Rebecca had asked, without meaning to impose, break confidence that Shawn had over his mysterious employer. Shawn searched vital keywords stored in his mind, and all he could hear was Lassie's grumbles, "I don't care what it looks like so long as it has a roof and possibly some plumbing…" But Shawn gave his answer that it had to be cosy, with a couple of bedrooms, a nice backyard, and a decent bathroom; the state of the kitchen (Lassie didn't cook much) and dining room (big waste of space) were the least important. These latter facts seemed to exalt Rebecca's spirits: usually all her clients cared about were garages, dining rooms, and kitchens. He was so perplexed by the amount of houses and condos in the area that it began to wear on him. "What are you so worried about?" Henry had tapped Shawn's noggin in that tricky manner, half encouraging and half degrading. "Houses are like good friends, kindred spirits. You'll know it when you see it."

On a dreary autumn day, Rebecca drove him to the far corner of a neighborhood built in the post-war baby-boom era, east of town. Stucco houses, roofs tiled in orange, sloping front lawns lush with vibrant landscaping. He got out of the car in the single, narrow drive of concrete—concrete!—about twenty feet long by anyone's generous estimation. He had a terrible feeling that this house, the last he was going to see that afternoon, wouldn't be right, either. But then he raised his head—and, like magic, he knew. This house was not only friendly, not only eager to share secrets, it already knew him, in the way old houses seem very wise and content as kings.

The lemon tree and the claw-foot bathtub really put Shawn over the edge. There was something wholesome and permanent about a claw-foot tub. It wasn't a shower stall like he'd been living with. It wasn't beige like hotel bathtubs. And though it had little lion-like paws, it didn't become animated because of an urge to aid Uruguay or roam the Scottish Pentlands. He'd stood in the kitchen, tiled 1950's yellow with 1970's cabinets, turning about to take in one final flavor of the house, before nodding to Rebecca. "We'll take it. Like—right now."

Lassiter's reaction had been inscrutable. Nearly everything about him was, except rare, explosive moments when someone, chiefly Shawn, lit the fire under him. Perhaps if he'd first stepped into his future abode only with Shawn, he might have shown an ounce of glee; but going there with Gus and Jules had made him reluctant to appreciate the place. Only when they moved the furniture in, having gotten rid of a lot of it, splurging to buy a few new pieces, was admiration freely given, by dropping a beer in Shawn's hand, the two of them exhaustively slumping to the couch, simultaneously putting their feet on the beaten-up coffee table, and saying 'You've earned it, Spencer.' Lassiter had a way of making those words mean everything to Shawn.

Still, all these months, coming and going, and it took the marriage of their partners to get Shawn into the claw-foot tub. The scent of eucalyptus was supposed to calm him, help heal his wounds, but they didn't really make herbs for the sort of calamities that had punctured his heart. It came close, reminding him strongly of Vick's Vapor Rub, smeared on his chest when he was a kid with a cold, by Mom whose hands were always warm and gentle. Tiny bubbles popped all around him, cracking at the slightest movement in the stagnant air, the fragrant steam, as he finally sat in the water. The white foam came to his armpits, the water hot to his abdomen. He'd forgotten the mightiness of physics, namely water displacement, and thus there was more liquid than he'd intended. It was California. They stole their water from pretty much every other state, and he tried not to feel too guilty. It never lasted long or did any good, anyway.

When the first shock of the hot water smacking his skin, feeling like it was eating his flesh, began to ebb, Shawn tried to relax. Eucalyptus. Breathe. Deep, deep breaths. Now think. But don't think too hard or you'll ruin the whole relaxation angle.

From the other side of the tub wall, he dragged out his notebook from the backpack. Scribbled lines were all over, paying not the slightest attention to the thin, college-ruled lines. Some footers and annotations were enormous, taking up a whole page. Some were so broken up and cluttered together that it would take Sherlock Holmes to untangle. Some were in short hand for no better reason than its quickness, and to make sure he still remembered it. It was such a dying art, really. He found the most recent stash of ideas, formulas, things to check into, but was dismayed by his lack of interest.

He could find the maid at the Trees' house. She was an extra. It would be easy to contact remaining connections with the studio, the soap opera, find out what agency they used, and go from there. What he might find out made it seem a worthless task. Another dead end.

Armed with a pen, he wrote and rewrote the names of those involved. Avery Tree. He was decidedly a victim, being dead and all confirmed his status there. Summer Preacher. Stripper. Full-time occupation of. Paid well. Agency. Address. Real. Fake mother.

His bouts of total concentration followed moments of outside recognition of himself. In a bathtub. Smelling like eucalyptus. Bubbles constantly popping, sounding like faraway, strained conversation of tiny people in an invisible mushroom and fern-filled land. With a notebook propped on his knees, his favorite blue pen in his hand, taken from Lassiter's desk years ago, and its perpetuating ink a testament to how much it was actually used. He didn't question how he got there. He knew well enough. Everything he'd done since returning to Santa Barbara seemed to be making up for a bout of teenaged rebellion, the infliction of wanderlust, the inability to settle down and, like the inscription above the Delphi temple, "Know Thyself." He'd always known other people better. They were easy to read, like manuscripts in the Courier New font; for all he knew of them, his judgements were sometimes wrong, and he was constantly surprised by what people did to one another, out of those four things that were motives for murder: money, sex, drugs, insanity.

Back into concentration, he read the names. Avery Tree. Summer Preacher. Sensing that Summer Preacher might still be alive—he could believe in his own fake psychic powers when it suited him—he focused on Avery Tree. Good looking guy. Twenty-three. If Shawn had met him in a bar, and was just drunk enough, Avery might've been more than a little fantastic for an all-night trick. Avery Tree seemed, according to Miss Preacher, too busy to bring home any suitable companions, and even too busy to bring trouble right there in River City. Summer had denied having any sexual relationship with Avery, and said it snickering, that she wasn't exactly his type. They were friends, and she cried and wept like she was sorry to have lost him—sorry and frightened. The house in Santa Barbara had belonged to the same company as the house in Ventura: Winfield Acquisitions. Who ran Winfield Acquisitions remained to be seen.

So, of the four motives for murder, what might this have been? The first three, easily. Money. There was definitely money involved. Sex. Avery Tree was probably one of the highest paid professional escorts in Santa Barbara, stretching his reputation into L.A. He oozed charisma and appeal; he was that irritating balance of machismo lapped up by women, and sensitivity that never threatened the men around him. Drugs. The pill bottle. Filled with what, well, _the Lab_ would let him know when the tests were complete. But drugs had to be included in motive. For now.

The water had lost its flagrantly scalding temperature by the time Shawn set aside notebook and pen. He knew then why he didn't like baths, and hadn't taken one since he was ten: It left a man feeling vulnerable to sit down, completely nude, in bubbles that broke with a bit of air.

Vulnerability was never more apparent to him than when he heard a banging—the back door shutting—and thumps that intervened in long moments of silence. Instead of calling out, Shawn waited, listening, trying to be valiant, trying to be cool. Impossible when sitting naked in a tub filled with eucalyptus, mint and vanilla soap that was $19.50 for ten ounces.

Having not brought one stitch of clothing into the bathroom with him, and still hearing footsteps, edging closer to the bathroom door, Shawn grabbed the white and red striped towel, wrapped it around him as he pulled himself out of the tub. The door flew in.

"Lassie," Shawn exclaimed breathlessly, his blood rushing through his ears, every nerve bursting with fear. "In the name of—what the hell?"

As stupefied by the moment as Shawn, Lassiter blinked, hesitated, dragged his eyes over a dripping Shawn, and flexed his fingertips against the doorknob. "You didn't answer your phone. Were you taking a bath?"

"Sometimes, my father's actually right—about some things," he replied blandly. Still, bangs and thumps proceeded throughout the house. Catching on to what might have happened, Shawn pivoted around Lassiter, entered the hall, stepped lively, less aware of his partial nudity, and ended up in the kitchen.

"Oh, hey, Shawn," McNab raised his hand in greeting, then saw what Shawn was wearing—or not wearing. "Were you taking a bath?"

"What is—" It was not only McNab, but two other officers, wafting in from the living room along with Lassiter. Shawn whimpered. Category 2. "I'm fine! Couldn't be finer! A guy doesn't answer his phone and that's cause to bring out the uniformed cavalry? Go home! Go!" Shawn, one hand sure to keep the tuck of the towel at his waist in place, used his other hand to gesture the three cops out of the house. "The movie's over! What are you still doing here? Party's done! Go!"

The stupefied trio were not guided by his leave, but by Lassiter's. "It's all right, go ahead back to the station." Alone for the slimmest of seconds, Lassiter pushed his lips together before haranguing Shawn. "Answer your phone, Spencer! You don't just have your apartment broken into, threatened—at gunpoint—by a very suspicious and tight-mouthed character, and then not answer your phone!"

"I was in the bath!" As though this required recapitulation. It was obvious he'd been in the bath. A tiny puddle of eucalyptus-scented water had formed beneath his prune-like feet. "I'm not going to take my phone into the bath with me!"

"You should!"

"Oh, come on! Lassie! They're not going to send rampaging lunatics!"

"You don't know that!"

"Hello! Psychic! If anyone would know if rampaging lunatics were going to attack, I'm pretty sure it would be me!"

"Shawn!"

"Carlton! Did you find out who the guy is? Did you find out anything?"

"Why are you yelling?"

"You were yelling at me just a second ago," Shawn replied, dimmed in voice, suddenly dimmed in mood, too. "And now I'm cold. And a little damp. And very aware that I'm just wearing a towel. It's a nice towel. Really. I mean that. I helped pick them out. But as far as clothing goes, it's a bit skimpy in the whole rear area. Very—drafty."

While uttering these inconsequential observations, Shawn sidled by the outer kitchen wall—sink, counter, refrigerator, pantry, towards the hallway. His hyper-vigilance had brought trouble numerous times, but right then it made him reel in all the wrong ways. Lassiter was not only questioning Shawn's confidence, but he was having a difficult time lifting his eyes from Shawn's old war wound, now a prim and bright little scar there on his arm. From imagining rampaging lunatics, looking like Celts from _Braveheart_ in his fertile imagination, to the riotous rush of blood through every vein, artery and capillary. Every auxiliary off-shoot of his body woke in fright under Lassie's eyes. It went beyond Awkward Moment Eta. It went straight into the holy grail of Awkwardness the second the space between them lessened.

"You know, Spencer—"

"Really not in the mood for a pep talk right now, Lass."

"I used to think you were full of shit."

Shawn loped his gaze straight to Lassiter. Unfair. He wanted to pull a red card on this one. It was unfair because Lassiter was supposed to be above surprises. Shawn was supposed to know him, predict him like the weather, three days out and never so good beyond that, the hot and cold of him, but it scathed that he didn't know how to predict Carlton. "Ninety-nine percent of the time, I'd be willing to agree with that statement. But right now—not so much. Trust me. I've never felt less full of shit than I do right now. Look, can you just—ow—dammit." He'd moved away too far and bumped the back of his heel against the floor molding, just beside his aim of the door.

Over time, Lassiter learned to cherish this moment. In years to come, it would be his to covet, look back upon: The one time, since the morning they'd met, that he made Shawn Spencer thresh about in his vain attempt not to flounder. The power in it could be used for such evil means. But he began to squirm, too, the second he grazed his fingertip across Shawn's battle scar, when Shawn didn't move, never flinched, and just stood there. Part of Shawn's allure had something to do with the scar. Why would a psychic, phoney or legit, bother to put his life in danger when he could've walked away? Shawn could do anything—anything. He was extremely intelligent, enthusiastic, energetic. Maybe being latched to a gift like that was as much hell on him as it had been on Lassiter for years. He couldn't help but admire Shawn at this emotional declivity. Freezing, shivering as a result, smelling like the outdoors and expensive things lost in dreams, it was so similar to a song known by rote suddenly becoming brand new, not tarnished by its humanness and shyness, but seductive, appealing, desirable, conquerable.

He was close enough to count unshaved hairs on Shawn's chin, near enough that he knew it was dangerous to bother inhaling. And when he did, it smacked him sharply in every inch of his viscera. He laughed at the absurdity, so simple, so provoking. "You… you smell really good."

The intensity burned in silence. Shawn wasn't so sure what was outdoor noise, what was himself, what was Carlton. His mind raced. He thought of the band Spiritualized, not even sure why in the heck that came to him, but for the faint idea of the album title flittering into the cobwebs of his brain… _Ladies and gentlemen, we are floating in space_… That was it. The closest thing he had to knowing what it was, caught there between Lassie and the hallway of his escape. He shifted aside asterisms and moons, satellites and solar flares, just to find himself as he might look from a fly on the wall: his bare feet against the reddish ceramic tiles, his own hairy legs that were not entirely homely to both sexes, the hem of the towel brushing against Lassiter's nearby knee, his belly heavy because it had become too difficult to properly breathe, shadows of his ribs and tips of his nipples, to his ears where he could hear a bee buzzing outside the kitchen window screen. Then the tattle of eroticism: he dropped his bottom lip just a bit, and seconds ago, at the start of it all, he'd closed his eyes. Scents seemed to clash: lavish eucalyptus and drug store Old Spice, a fragment of Peach Swirl Snuggle and stale coffee left in the pot. It was such a tandem of domestic bliss, rich, intoxicating, there for the taking, that Shawn never knew what home was, really, until he reached for it. He got as far as gripping Lassie's tie, that ugly thing that looked like fermented mustard in a jar, to an awareness that Lassie had leaned in, expecting the same—before something unrelated to either of them whacked their lust-filled senses.

Shawn ducked his head, then dipped his shoulders, finally taking that last step to freedom. "I'm going to—"

"Yeah," Carlton said, leaping away like a frightened yearling.


	4. Part the Fourth

Part the Fourth

-x-

Shawn shut the bedroom door. The blinds were still drawn, like dawn had never happened, morning hadn't come, and that event in the kitchen was still a glint in the changeable future. He tried to replay it—Lassie, leaning in—breathing him in—but it began to break up, damaged by interference and his own vengeful spirit. Better to let it burn out, he thought. It wasn't real. None of this was real.

Grabbing his iPhone, he read the missed calls. Lassie, Lassie, Lassie—his dad—Lassie. He'd probably in the bath forty minutes. It was nearly noon…

He dressed and cantered back to the kitchen, supposing Lassiter had gone back to the station, bewildered to see him sitting at the table. Rather dejectedly, too, with his hands in his hair and his face hidden. Instead of referencing it—homoeroticism was not exactly meant to be the diving point of conversation—Shawn tracked the subject he most wanted to hear. The point, anyway, right behind his aching desire to know if Carlton had a bit of a bisexual streak in him. The men of the southern California should be so privileged. But Shawn first, if any man was to be lucky; Shawn first.

Claiming a chair and sitting in it backward, feeling a bit like Judd Nelson in _The Breakfast Club_, Shawn rubbed his chin across his wrist three times before initiation. "So—who is the guy?"

"Chief says his name's Thomas Akroyd Brown."

"The chief says? What, Karen wouldn't let you talk to him? That's odder than the number one."

"Not really, Spencer. And—" he raised his head, poised for the conundrum, "what?"

"Did he give you any information?"

"He says he was there freelance."

Shawn swore and shaded his eyes with a hand that slightly trembled. Leftover remains of what Carlton had done to him. He was just relieved he'd been able to button on his jeans, after such an unanticipated instance of fugitive passion. "So the whole thing was unrelated."

"He says it was. Did you get any ideas?"

"Just a couple. I can explain on the way."

"Way to where?"

"Cooperstown, New York. I just have a hankering to see the Baseball Hall of Fame."

Lassiter examined Shawn as though the two of them had never met before. It was just some stranger sitting at his dining room table. Some stranger staying in the guest room. An odd man off the street who left his sandals under the table, set out his roommate's coffee mug every morning. The metaphor failed to last. Only Shawn Spencer could make him so frustrated, professionally and personally. He'd always known Shawn's talents to be unique—but that—_that_—it left Carlton blind and wanting.

"I'm kidding. I do that. It's what I do."

"I knew you were," Lassiter said.

"Because just for a second there it looked like you were willing to do it. Go to New York, I mean." He didn't want to bring it up, make it stand out—or embarrass either of them. _Willing to do it._ Too many meanings there.

"Vick doesn't really want you investigating this further."

Shawn snickered, rolled out of the chair, and foiled by his boss, did what he always intended. "I'm going to keep investigating. I need this case."

"That's what I told her you'd say. You're an independent private investigator, Spencer. Sure, you don't have a license, you're exempt from that, but you don't have to do what the SBPD tells you to do. Just like you said to Detective Fielding on the phone. Why should you listen to anyone? I told that to Chief Vick. She said she knows she can't stop you from doing what you want to do, but she can withhold payment, even if you somehow manage to solve the case."

"I need this case, Lassie! You know that better than anyone. Jules and Gus are gone—and—"

"You need a vacation, Spencer. You're losing it."

"You can't see that there's something a whole lot bigger going on here! This isn't local. This is big—national—hell, it could be the work of a universal syndicate for all we know! Come on! Quit holding out on me! I know you know something!" He drummed the back of his hands against Lassiter's shoulder, stepped back, waiting.

"Vice is following up some less than savory characters that might be connected."

"Knew it! We are a go for universal syndicate!" Shawn's hand automatically went to his head. Eyes closed, chin slightly lifted, he held out his other arm and snapped his fingers. "What else? What else? Give it to me baby, uh-huh, uh-huh!" Really, the antics were not so much fun when Gus and Jules were not around to laugh encouragingly. Lassiter just sort of stared wanly and failed to capture the Offspring reference. He really needed to educate Lassie in some more recent pop-culture developments, anything after, say, 1992. "No. Seriously. What else, Lassie?"

"There might be some murders in L.A. associated with Tree's death. Four similar murders—young men and women, in that profession—were killed after accidental O.D.'s. I'm having McNab and Fielding look into it."

"And the houses those other victims lived in? Owned by Winfield Acquisitions?"

"We don't—"

"Oh, I'm sure they are. I'll bet my collection of Mario Lemieux foil-stamped baseball cards that they are."

"Mario Lemieux played hockey, not baseball."

"I know that. I was just—using a general form of the plural noun "baseball cards". What are you supposed to be doing, if McNab and Fielding are doing all the fun stuff? Sit at home and baby-sit me? Oh, is this going to be like—no, God, wait, just too many films with this plot came into my head and I seem to be having a kind of overload."

Fascinated, Lassiter observed Shawn, his simple steps around the dining room, his rather wistful pauses to look out the window, his narrow prints left in the area rug. What was it about Spencer, anyway, that lured him in, equal bits hate and equal bits admiration? Energy, Lassiter supposed. Bountiful, ceaseless energy. Stamina. Things Victoria had never accused him of having, but had plenty of times accused him of being without. He wondered how it happened like that, some people being born with so much inside that they were fit to burst one second to the next; and how there came to be people like him, hollow, seemingly senseless, loving very little but the act of winning. Competition was Lassiter's only true love. Provoked, as Maddie had told him in that ground-breaking psychological assessment, by the thrashings of jealousy.

He sighed, set his head to his hand. He was tired, too. More than once in the last six months, he'd heard it from all directions, from Juliet to Vick to his dentist: You should take a vacation. He would, after he won this case. He'd take Spencer, or follow him—that didn't matter—and the two of them would have a genuine, indulgent, reckless vacation.

"Lassie." Shawn poked him in the shoulder. "You alive in there, Gumby?"

"She tried to get me to do nothing. Sit on my hands. Work on other cases."

"Oh yeah, that totally sounds like you. Especially the part where you sit on your hands until they get little wrinkles in them… But?"

"I told her you hadn't led us astray, not more often than you come through in the past, and I was going to see what leads you came up with."

"I bet she didn't like that. Did she get all red in the face, and did her eyebrow do that twitchy Richard Wilson thing?"

"Uh, no…" Lassiter's eyes scanned an invisible place before returning to Shawn. It was the first time he'd looked at him since this secondary interview, of Shawn actually dressed, had started. "She kind of weighed her coffee mug in her hand. Like she was deciding whether or not to throw it at me. Then she said it was all right, and I was probably correct in assuming you would have a lead by now. Tell me you have a lead, Spencer."

"I do," Shawn admitted. "But involves the two of us getting something to eat—I haven't eaten yet today and—" He skipped naming his symptoms of hunger. "And a drive to Santa Ynez."

"Should I even bother asking why we're going to Santa Ynez?"

"Cougar's Diner, dude. Best cinnamon French toast in the history of French toast. I know you're a sucker for sweet things, so I thought that would reconcile the fact that we're going to need to speak to another psychic by the name of Olga Martina Guilaroff Gomez. Better known as, wait for it," he spun around his hand, finger up, a la Will Arnett in _Arrested Development_, "Lady Olga."

Because he knew what Lassiter's reaction would be, Shawn spat out the last of the sentence and immediately zoomed out of the back door. "Spencer!" shortly followed along with the mad, racing steps of Lassiter. Shawn ran around the house once, then met Lassie at the sedan like nothing had happened.

"Olga Martina Guilaroff Gomez?" repeated Lassiter, unlocking the car, getting in, and watching Spencer slip into the seat with his usual gracefulness.

"Yes. I met her at a convention a couple years ago. Father was a Russian psychic used by the KGB back in the day. Her mother was a spiritual advisor from Pasadena. Olga's a nice woman. At least, I think she prefers to be called a woman. But we'll eat first, right? My stomach's berserk. Or were you too far away from me to hear my stomach grumbling but close enough to know how good I smelled? I did smell good." There, he'd finally joked about it. And if he did it again, Lassie might laugh. It was too soon, and all Shawn received was a scowl and tumbling insides as the car backed out of the driveway upwards of thirty miles per hour.

At Cougar's Diner, Shawn made good on his word about the delectable cinnamon French toast, and Lassiter wouldn't deny its scrumptiousness. They were coldly civil to one another, for the first ten minutes, and found amiable common ground discussing the itinerary of Gus and Jules, where they were likely to be at just that very minute. Before paying the bill, as Lassiter knew he would have to do, Shawn didn't have a cent on him, judging by the thinness of his wallet in the back pocket, he went into the restroom to get rid of coffee and orange juice. Shawn, the second Lassiter was gone, took out his phone.

"I can't believe you're calling me."

"Hello to you, too, Mr Chocolate-dipped Wafer Newlywed."

"Shawn, what is it? I'm standing outside the British Museum. It's pouring rain. I hope this is important."

"It's an emergency." Self-conscious, and he couldn't believe he was using the word with himself, Shawn maneuvered out of the restaurant, out of the vestibule, and into the Santa Ynez air. "I really have a problem. Huge, huge problem."

"What is it?" Now Gus became concerned, his voice softened while the rain increased. He noted by the quiver in Shawn's voice that something wasn't right. "I know about the break-in at your place."

"I know that you know. It's not about that. It's complicated. And not that awful Meryl Streep movie, either. This is real life, and I can't get out of it."

"Breathe, Shawn. You're starting to scare me."

"Is Jules there?"

"She's in the gift shop. I stepped out to take your call. Are you all right?"

"Well, you know how I've always sorta had that secret," Shawn cringed a bit, "that secret side to me?"

"Oh. Wait. Are you talking about the 'I secretly really like bookstores' or the, um, 'What happens when I drink too much in a bar' secret side?"

"Yeah, that's it, that's the one!"

"Shawn, you've been that way ever since high school."

"I like to be sure I experience as much as possible."

"Going to bed with another dude is not really what I'd call an experience."

"You are not me. And you know I've always tried to keep quiet about that. Although I told Abigail. She thought it was kind of hot."

"I'll just bet she did. Is this pertinent? Did you wake up in bed with another man and wonder how you got there? Oh. My. God. Please tell me you didn't—"

"Oh God no, Gus. Give me some credit. Only—something sort of happened, and I wasn't even drinking."

"With Lassiter?"

"Who else?"

"Are you sure you weren't drunk?"

"It was eleven-thirty in the morning, Gus."

"Wait, this was _this_ morning?" Gus used a bit of his astonished laugh and a bit of his mocking chortle. "Oh I can't wait to tell this to Juliet. She is going to freak."

"I'm freaking! My freak out time first! You have to tell me what to do!"

"Go give him a nice big kiss."

"Are you kidding? Wait. Of course you're kidding. The only way you wouldn't be is if you wanted me dead. Gus! He'd _shoot_ me."

"Well, then you'd know. Was he drunk?"

"Lassie? Uh, no. I don't know how it happened. I was in a towel. We were in the kitchen. He smelled so good. Then he said I smelled good. And—ugh! He was just oozing all this charisma and masculinity, and—and it was all very bucolic, very _Bridges of Madison County_. I've been a closet bisexual all my life—"

"I don't think they make a closet for that."

"Yes, they do! I've seen it!"

"Where, Shawn? Where have you seen this closet?"

"In the California Closets store at Paseo Nuevo."

"Whatever. And just the fact that you told me doesn't make you in the closet at all."

"You know that my telling you secrets doesn't really count as telling secrets. Great, there's Lassiter. Dammit! Gus! Don't be a rebellious Zoltar machine. Hurry up with the advice."

Gus laughed again, thoroughly enjoying his best friend's sexual dilemma. Sooner or later, it was bound to happen. Not with Lassiter, maybe, but that Shawn would find himself in a situation he couldn't lie his way out of. Then, aware that it might be a while before he spoke to Shawn again, Gus attempted to do what he could to soothe. "Shawn, be careful. Lassiter did not sound very happy about any of this when we spoke this morning. And don't worry about that other thing. I'm sure it's fine."

"It's not a rash, Gus. It's not going to just go away with a little hydrocortisone cream! What am I supposed to do?"

"I already gave you my advice. Get out of that case, Shawn, or I'm coming back there. And you do _not_ want me to cut my honeymoon short to watch after your sorry ass."

"I can't let this go, it's too important." Returned to the restaurant, Shawn shed his nervous outward demeanor, donned his serious voice, and met Lassie at the diner's register. "We're going to meet Lady Olga."

"The psychic cross-dresser you met at the Greater Los Angeles Psychic Convention last year?"

"That's her—him. I'm a bit torn about that."

"You met her at a convention they didn't even advertise."

"Why would they if it was for psychics? Of course we would know about it ahead of time. Really, Gus, you know better than that. How's the little cream-filled cupcake?"

"I assume you mean Juliet."

"I don't know any other cupcakes, aside from Lassiter's ass. Ow. Sorry, it just slipped out."

"Did Lassiter just hit you?"

"Very hard, yes. Not in the nice way that makes me dance to the Pet Shop Boys."

"Maybe you should curtail your flirting before you end up black and blue. Have fun with your psychic, Shawn. But, really—be careful. I'd better have a best friend to come home to."

"You will, buddy. All right. Have fun at those stuffy old museums."

"We will. And Shawn?"

"Yeah?"

"Stay out of trouble, and—and um—"

"I love you, too. Hugs and kisses to Jules."

Lassiter wouldn't have admitted it for anything, but he was often envious of Shawn and Gus's friendship. Who would he have called the moment his life hit a impassable crisis, as it had that morning, in his very own kitchen? There was only one person. The guy next to him.

-x-

"Dude, wait out here." Shawn barred Lassie from the back-door entrance to Lady Olga's single-room establishment. Lassiter's reluctance was, by the shift of his torso, the stance of his long legs, more than a little obvious. With threats postulated by Gus looming over him, Shawn nonetheless reached over and patted Lassie right on the sternum, sure to touch the obnoxious tie. "I sense that she'd rather you wait out here. Olga and I have a very complex confederacy type of thing going on, and I don't want anything to bust that up. Also, she's—he's—I'm still not clear on that—not that fond of guns. And what do you call this?"

Shawn sliced at the end of Lassiter's suit coat: after a floop, it revealed the holstered sidearm.

"Ah, the FNP-9 today? That's interesting. Did you wear that because the matte finish goes with that tie? Never mind. Nothing in this world goes with that tie but spoiled tapioca. I'm throwing that thing away, seriously. Stay here. If it's safe for you to come in, I'll hail you, Sulu-style."

"Shawn—" But all he got was a raised hand, a pointer finger, before Shawn vanished into the shadows, the door snapping shut.

Inside, it smelled just as he remembered: lavender, jasmine, gardenia. It was like Bath and Body Works and not the standard, patchouli-drenched new-age gizmo shop one would expect. While bookcases lined the shelves, and plastic stars hung from invisible string straight down from the cathedral ceiling, it was a bright, airy atmosphere, at once relaxing. Smooth jazz played from the direction of Lady Olga's living quarters, through the screen door and up a step. But upon her "direction table", as she called it, really like her desk, where she laid out tarot cards and transacted business, sat her tiny, tailless tabby cat.

"Hey, Nikolai! What's up, king of the castle?" His fingers received loving rubs as he was greeted with a drool and a purr. Why couldn't all cats be as nice to him as Nikolai?

"Shawn Spencer, is that you?" came the voice from the kitchen, through the screen, over the music.

"Who else would you be expecting?"

"Well," now she came into view, an imposing, broad-shouldered woman with flawless dark skin and blazing brown eyes, "I did have a feeling, when I got up this morning, I'd be meeting a handsome leading man today. I was hoping for Rupert Everett, but you'll do."

He took her hand and pressed it to his lips, around a few gleaming gemstone rings. "So nice to see you, buttercup of the hearth."

"You don't have to fill up our time with placations. You're in a hurry, aren't you?"

"Almost constantly. And yet not. It's all so—antithetical."

"The marvel of Neptune retrograde, sweetie. Behold it."

He was bewildered by her inability to sit still. The last two times he'd met her, she sat down immediately, in her pretty red chair, and made him sit opposite her. Now she moved, went to bookshelves, took down objects he couldn't see in the charming chiaroscuro.

"Your friend is outside?"

"I can ask him to come in."

"No," she flapped a hand at him, "no, you did right, asking him to wait. I want you to take this. It is a gift from me to you."

He accepted a four-ounce glass jar with a wire bale, and, to her amusement, had to sniff its contents. It repulsed him, then lingered in his nose, tingling but strangely settling.

"It is for your headaches," Olga said. "You have had headaches lately, haven't you?"

He glanced left, then right, then at her. He forgot there were real psychics in the world. And while Olga had known him for what he was, she could've spotted him for a charlatan a mile out, she believed his talents helpful and his motives genuine.

"Daily," Shawn admitted, affecting a shrug. "And sometimes even hourly."

"Put it in some hot water."

"To drink?"

"Let a girl finish, honey."

"Sorry."

"Put it in some hot water and let it soak into a clean, white washcloth. H'mm, maybe have your friend sweep your brow with it? It will be very erotic. He likes to take care of you. Capricorn?"

"No, thanks, we just ate. Oh," Shawn understood, "he's an Aries, apparently. Not like a _real_ Aries."

"Don't let it bother you, Shawn."

"It doesn't bother me that he's an Aries. Maybe he has a watery moon." All the better for sweeping fevered brows, for erotic surprises, for intense stares that lingered. Shawn rubbed another ache rapping at his temple.

Olga smiled delicately. "You would do better to relax, let the universe unfold however it wants. It will anyway."

Shawn clutched the bale jar closer, swept up in a moment's insecurity. The things she saw! Locked away in the heart of him. "I'm afraid other people are going to die if I can't figure this out."

"People will die."

"Can't I stop it?"

"Can you stop it? Shawn, look at me."

He did so, teetering into the oblivion she created, that miasmic mysticism. The ache in his head increased to a vermicular band from temple to temple, flickering in and out of intensity.

"You are human. Every human is fallible. You are becoming too rigid in your scope."

"I'm tired."

"I know you are, baby. I know you are."

He wondered if she saw a vacation in his future. Maybe snow and plains that slipped infinitely into an empty horizon…

"It's a long way off, sweetie, but you'll get there." Olga held her hands next to his temples, breathed in, and seemed to take the pain out of him. "I'm a clairvoyant, Shawn, but with you I get a hundred hints of premonitions. Lots of little Jungian symbols. You're like a tarot deck unto yourself. You have faced Death recently. Not the mask and the scythe, but the change of him."

"Some of the mask and scythe, too," said Shawn, trying to adjust her spool of images. "The thing is, Olga, I don't know who to start with. We've got zero leads. I can't even fake my way out of this one. Whatever I'm in, I want to stay there."

"Well, yes. Who'd Shawn Spencer be if he up and dashed away, tail between his legs? He'd be like everyone else. You're persistent. I admire that in you. So do your friends, your family. If you don't know where to start, just quit looking for a beginning, and go back to the ending."

A gurgle sounded in Shawn's throat, mouth open, then suddenly tightly closed. He didn't even know what that meant.

"I see a forest in front of you. A copse. Filled with fruit trees. Peach trees."

That sent such a signal of coincidence up his spine that he grappled for his breath. "Peach trees. In the summer?"

"What other season would they bear fruit? You have to find the connection between the things you've seen and the things you think you know."

Again, a capricious riddle, meaning one thing in an instant, and another thing as soon as the light changed. Riddles, double-meanings, they always required adjustments. Summer Preacher, Avery Tree—their names. Why hadn't he seen it before?

"You were too clouded by the obvious. You can't expect to find everything you're looking for right next to you. Things are not always lateral, are they? In logic, perhaps they are, yes. But we work outside of logic, in its recess. Even you. Will you come back and visit me again? I should like to have a chat with you when you don't have to run off. Your friend is anxious. Didn't I tell you what a fine couple you'd make?"

"Yeah," Shawn nodded, remembering, turning the jar against him. He started to smile, tried to laugh, because then his monstrous misinterpretation of the previous utterance seemed far away. "Yeah, you did. But I thought you meant—"

"It is not up for me to clarify everything, is it? You, too, leave things open for interpretation. Most artists do. How far we are willing to take what is given to us, well, that is up to our willingness to face it. You are afraid of change, Shawn. At your heart, you really love comfort, you really want to believe you are as untouchable and as vain as everyone believes you are."

"Wow."

She chuckled at his offended face.

"I know," he gave a nod, much too nervous in her presence to induce an argument he wouldn't be able to win, "you're not here to tell me what I want to hear, either. You're just hear to show me things as they are."

"We see ourselves in our own realities. There isn't another way."

"Great. Let's just skip the expert romantic advice and go straight into abstract philosophy. What was it you said, Olga? Something about not knowing where the beginning was, but knowing where the ending was." Shawn's thoughts began to drift, slant sideways, as he looked at Nikolai, the living creature inspiring disillusionment, and thought of all he'd been through with the case. The names… He could work with that. Money, sex, drugs—he could work with that, too. At least until the LAPD vice department brought their own conclusions.

Olga stood, back to him, at the high workbench in the far corner of the room. He heard a splash of oil falling into another jar, caught a whiff of a sweetly-scented unknown that exhilarated.

"Olga, tell me something."

"Anything for you."

"The case. How big is the case? I told Lassiter universal. Maybe it's just the Canadians. They're always up to something."

"I would say it is pretty big. Canada's big, but not that ambitious. You will find help from outside sources more than inside ones. No," her gaze slivered as she reaffirmed the slippery statement, "no, that is not right. It was not you I was reading, but your friend out there. I read him as though he is the entire SBPD."

"You're not entirely wrong there. He likes to think he is."

"Men who don't have much else will devote themselves to their work. That's partially why he is afraid of you. You make him think of other things. His loneliness. His principles. His values. He's afraid you'll hurt him. But you don't understand what it is to really hurt him, do you? No, of course you don't. People have different forms of hurt, Shawn, and different ways they can be hurt, too. But, to digress—you don't want emotions right now—yes, inside sources. Other police departments."

"The LAPD?" He whispered it for himself, for Nikolai, hardly for Lady Olga.

She heard, too, and gave a negative shake of her head. "Perhaps more than that. Here, take this, and you'd better go."

He took the proffered bottles, two small ones, containing the mixtures she had concocted. "What is it?"

"Massage oil. Ylang-ylang in one, and sandalwood in the other. His favorites. He doesn't know that yet, but we are always learning new things about ourselves. If you need something else, Shawn, you know I will always be here for you." She saw him lifting the goods, the jar and the two bottles of massage oil, and immediately interrupted his query. "Next time. You can pay for it next time."

A lunge ahead let Shawn land an accurate kiss right on her cheek. "Thank you! I owe you one! I might owe you a thousand in a few weeks!"

In the car, as Shawn entered, Lassiter examined him, snatching a scent of what Lady Olga's place must have smelled like. He'd been pondering a doltish burst into the shop just as he saw Shawn emerge, with two tiny bottles and a jar full of crushed herbs. "What the hell's all this? Christmas?"

"Never mind—I don't know—but I think I have an idea of what to do now." He loved seeing Lassie get the slightest bit excited. A glow came into his eyes, his grin turned fiendish and hungry.

"Great! Ha! Where's your psychic vibration leading us?"

"SBPD headquarters."

"What?"

"Just drive, man, drive! Or do you want me to drive? Can I sit on your lap and—"

"Spencer."

"Oh, fine. Spoil my fun. Or would that be your fun? So hard to tell. Just way too much going on there… I want to help Detective Fielding and McNab look through those files. I think I know how we can close in on other potential victims. Their names, Lassie, their names! It's always the name! Who said that? Shakespeare? Also, what do you think of this?" Shawn, as Lassiter threw the car into drive, popped one of the massage oil bottles beneath Lassie's nose. "Take a little sniff. Just a little one. I don't want you to hurt yourself."

"Smells all right, I guess."

Such a downplayed response surely meant just the opposite. Lassiter loved it. Shawn read the bottle, marked in Lady Olga's computer-printed labels as being Ylang-ylang. Whatever it was, it was going to drive Lassie crazy, as soon as Shawn had the guts to live with the changefulness of that.

"So many possibilities," Shawn said aloud.

"Well," Lassiter proudly misapprehended Shawn's message, "let's just go with one possibility at a time. I know what happens when you face too many things at once. You get that glassy-eyed stare and go a bit comatose."

"I do not!" protested Shawn.

"You do!"

"When has that _ever_ happened?"

Lassiter examined what he could of the past, running into brick walls, then unnerved since the statement he was so sure about turned dubious. "I don't know… but there's a first time for everything."

"That's exactly what I'm counting on. Just not the glassy-eyed, semi-comatose thing. Unless I'm in bed. And you're the one next to me."

Lassiter slammed on the brakes and pulled the car to the nearest curb. Shawn's hand hurt, bracing as he had to the end of the dashboard. His neck had a thin layer of skin removed by the intrusive safety belt. But it proved too warped a situation for Carlton to handle. Too much to move through. Too much to explain. All he managed to accomplish was a point, an irate glare, until Shawn nodded, capitulating.

"Sorry, that was out of line."

"So far out of line, Spencer."

"But true."

"Not helping."

"Just drive. We've got people to save. We can work out our unresolved sexual tension later."

"We don't have any unresolved sexual tension."

"Lassie, that's all we have."

"That's not true! You're crazy."

"I'm tired, and borderline sleep-deprived, and perhaps a little ADD, and certainly psychic—but I am not crazy. Maybe I need this." Shawn's thumb released the cap from the oil bottle. He knew little about aromatherapy, but that Lady Olga believed strongly in essential oils: they were good for everything.

"What is that stuff, anyway?"

"It is ylang-ylang, my sweet Lassie bear. I have no idea what it's supposed to do, but she said it was your favorite. Along with this one." He tossed the other bottle and caught it. "Sandalwood. Sandalwood."

The repetition jabbed Lassiter's conscience, so altered was Shawn's inflection. There it was, that glazed, glassy-eyed, straight-ahead stare. "Spencer?"

He zoomed right out of that anti-reality vacuum and into the present. "Step on it, Lass. Put out the blinky gumball and blare the sirens. I think I know who our next victim is."


	5. Part the Fifth

**Part the Fifth**

-x-

A dampness had oozed its way into Santa Barbara, then became annoyingly stagnant. The sun shimmied behind low, wispy clouds, and its absence caused Shawn to wish he hadn't left behind his jacket. Even 215 Figueroa Street was not immune to the chill. Such a cavernous place, built of stone, lined in tile, certainly wouldn't do much but soak up every drop of wetness it possibly could, and discourteously spew it out as humidity. Downy hairs on Shawn's arms stood up ramrod straight, and he crossed them at his chest. Pacing was no good. He wanted to pace—terribly. Too much wind. Wind makes wind chill. There always was a suspicious, watchful wind loitering in the recesses of Chief Vick's office. Wasn't anyone else freezing? Of course it was only him, Vick, his father for some unexplained reason, and Lassie. Shawn took an exploratory turn from one end of the room to the other, to avoid another long judgment of Lassie's demeanor.

Again, he wasn't listening. As a whole, they weren't listening, Vick and Henry, and Shawn's passionate regards to Lassie transformed to wordless reproaches. Lassiter ought to feel free to leap in at any time and vouch for Shawn.

"We have no reason to believe that Jonathan—" Vick paused to think of his surname, far too slowly for Shawn's liking.

"Sandalwood."

"That Jonathan Sandalwood will be another victim. In all honesty, Mr. Shawn," she had taken to calling him Mr. Shawn while Mr. Spencer the Elder was within earshot, but her face filled with pity, "I'd really like for you to go home," now a furtive glance at Lassiter, and a slightly cantankerous, disbelieving wag of her head, "wherever that is—until we've had an opportunity to investigate—let me finish—thoroughly."

"But you are going to talk to Jonathan Sandalwood," Shawn said. He meant to be persistent. "If you don't, I will. And you know how much you love it when I go and talk to potential murder victims on my own."

"Shawn." Henry started his admonishment but failed at the precise moment to produce the sharpest follow through. Part of him believed Shawn had a point. Fake psychic ability notwithstanding, Shawn's perceptions had helped out the SBPD for years, even before he became part of the team. The record of his success was astounding. Exasperated, and aware that Karen solicited his respect—he had to side with the chief—Henry angled to Lassiter. "You haven't said ten words in the last ten minutes. Don't you have an opinion?"

Lassiter's eyes bobbed back and forth unhappily, from one person to the next, seemingly to slide right over Shawn. In truth, he did look at Shawn, a hopelessly alluring part of him. (It didn't matter which part was declared hopelessly alluring: all he had to do was pick one.) An opinion, didn't he have one of those? Once upon a time, he'd had lots of them, usually given without a second thought or a pang of conscience. Now his only opinion at the time was connected to the lovely structure of Shawn Spencer's forearms. It is time to focus, Carlton. Head out of ass. Yes. There you go.

"I think we should stop by and have some words with Mr. Sandalwood."

"Yes," hissed Shawn in the background, moved enough to fist pump aside.

Doubt raced across the parental faces. Shawn pointed enthusiastically at the tall, wilted Carlton.

"He's head detective, Chief, and we should do what he says!"

"All right, Mr. Shawn." But she wasn't acquiescing, only insisting that he calm down before he pulled a muscle. Henry's earlier chatter, a bit inane as it always was after a visit with Maddie, imparted worry for Shawn's mental and physical condition. A wedding exhausted those involved—but Shawn's workload had been enormous lately. Though her pleas for him to go home and retire this case to their capable hands, Shawn wouldn't drop something without finishing it first. Not a case like this. Henry had warned her about that, too. It would be as hopeless as asking the moon to turn around. "Lassiter, what do you know about Jonathan Sandalwood?"

"Only what Shawn's told me." He too enjoyed calling Shawn by his first name whenever Henry Spencer happened to be close.

"And I only know about him because I saw the ad in the paper for his new show—opening here instead of L.A. You know how we could know more about him? If we talk to him! That's how you get to know someone. Chief, he could be lying on stage right now—dead as Alfonso Ribero's career! And that ringing phone," Shawn did catch a phone ringing in the background, "that could be the Tanglevine Club manager calling right now to report a murder!"

Just then O'Connell rapped and was bade entrance. "Chief, call on line three."

"See!" Shawn said, flinging an arm to the befuddlement of O'Connell, who'd recently seen Shawn in nothing but a towel in Detective Lassiter's kitchen—and it gave him a whole new appreciation for their sanctioned psychic.

"Take a message," Vick grumbled hastily to O'Connell. Her mouth tilted, lips scrunched together. A subtle shrug from Henry suggested helplessness. "If you're up to it, Mr. Shawn, fine. But I want you to go home when you're done."

"What if we find something important? Or are you implying we can't find anything so important that it can't wait until tomorrow? What am I supposed to do the rest of the evening? It's, like, one in the morning in London, so I can't talk to Gus or Jules. I haven't found a way to make Lassie stop the hate against Trivial Pursuit, and I can't even get him to play gin-rummy. Did you get the report yet on what was in that bottle?" The limit of Vick's patience had nearly been reached, but Shawn had one more verbal platoon. "Can I go down and speak to the guy who broke into my place?"

"NO!" the three shouted in unison.

Shawn crossed his arms again, took three steps ahead, turned around, and went through it all one more time. Why were they so insistent that he not speak to one deranged lunatic? He'd spoken to so many. It was so unavoidable in California. Or, really, anywhere. "If you can't find out anything about him, why don't you let me see him? I can get some psychic laundry."

"Psychic—what?" But Vick ignored her own ignorance and forced herself to answer. Shawn forever tried the limits of her professionalism. "We know enough. He isn't connected to the Avery Tree case. Vice has never heard of him. He has no prior record, no previous convictions."

"He's a nobody who made a mistake," Henry paraphrased, hoping it was enough to appease Shawn. There was something very off about Shawn that afternoon. Hunched shoulders, folded arms, forceful strides, sardonic expressions, his hair limp and not perfectly coiffed—they were not part of Shawn's typical repertoire. "Shawn. Let. It. Go."

"The next time someone breaks into your house—that isn't your brother—I'll be sure to tell you the same thing. Come on, Lass, let us away." He tugged once, feebly, at Lassiter's tie, rushing out of the office. Just when Lassiter met him in the hall, Shawn slipped back in. He picked at the sleeve of Vick's white jacket hanging from the rack. "Is this available in pale olive by chance?"

"Spencer."

"But I'm freezing!"

He wouldn't wait for their pithy responses, if any came at all, and instead of leading Carlton through the front door, detoured adroitly into the lower level. Bombarded by confusion, Lassiter stalked after him, believing, at first, that Shawn was on his way to the holding cell of Thomas Akroyd Brown, instead ending up in the fishy, tangy scents of the subterranean locker room.

Shawn rooted through shelves of spare sweatshirts and lightweight jackets. "Lassie, I'm so cold. I need tea. Or Theraflu. Or," he roved his unmitigated gaze up and down Lassiter, "other things to keep me warm. What do you think?" He held a gray fleece up to him, with SBPD in navy serif letters. "Is it me? Would Jonathan Sandalwood really appreciate it if I interviewed him in this?"

"I knew you were cold," Lassiter said, frightened that he'd said it without a filter, then proud when Shawn gave him that warm look that transformed every particle around them. "You're easy to read if you let yourself. If you get quiet and cranky, it usually means that um—you're—" Shawn was putting one arm through the sweatshirt, it was strangely intimate to see someone known so well getting dressed, "either hungry, pissed off about something, or cold."

"What about when I have a headache?" Because he'd had so many lately. Maybe it was a good idea to get home after interviewing Mr. Sandalwood. He could try Lady Olga's tincture remedy, if it meant not being persuasive enough to get Lassie to sweep his brow with a homeopathic plangent. Such was life. "What am I like when I have a headache?"

"Tired," Lassiter replied softly. A handful of memories cut a swath through the present, all the little instances when a sleepy, lethargic Shawn haunted the station corridors. Gus had provided the tip in bygone days, when antagonism still outweighed friendship among the four of them. Lassiter had been gaping at Shawn, whose head was set to his wrists there in main conference room. Shawn, so full of explosive energy that the sun was often jealous, had not moved from his position for ten minutes. Gus turned to carefully observe, then explained. "Never mind him. He's under one of his headaches again. Usually happens after it rains. Grass pollen count or something. Just between you and me, I think he would've preferred lactose intolerance as his adult-onset allergy…" It thrilled Gus to report Shawn's imperfections from time to time, as much as it thrilled Carlton to hear them.

Shawn's sniffle was a sign of allergies, the impending damp, a cold front, whatever the hell it was. No amount of trifling pains thwarted the thrill of finally visiting the elite Tanglevine Club—and its latest star attraction. The fleece was nice—nice and new and full of softness, and folding his arms to keep warm wasn't required. He beamed at Lassiter. "Well, Robert Preston, let's go see a man about a burlesque show!"

-x-

Ill fate and bad luck ran along the same course. Lassiter preferred calling it Failure. His grandmother, Scotch-Irish and Presbyterian by heritage, would've named it Providence and left it at that. Under any other name its klaxons blared the same. They were not to see a man about a burlesque show—or about anything at all.

Lassiter reached conclusions before headache-ridden Shawn, nearly as soon as the great, Oriental-red doors of the Tanglevine Club opened and their ears were overfed by something that Shawn later titled "psy-trance." It thumped, had serious arterial rhythm, and the bass kicked into every bit of Lassiter's flesh. Not far beyond the foyer was the well-lit stage, peopled by the flailing bodies of men flanked by shimmying, glimmer-ridden women. Or, knowing the reputation of the Tanglevine Club, probably men posing as women, and being better at it than some women. A round-faced Samoan met them at the door, it being one of those dark places, like a dinner club fashioned from the mind of Blake Edwards, that required a full-time guard.

"Help you, gentleman?"

Lassiter flashed his badge. Two seconds ahead of Shawn's improvisation that they were such and such, here because Jonathan Sandalwood had invited him. Either Shawn's lassitude or his own internal alarm made him feel in too big of a hurry to prance around.

The Samoan actually took time to read Lassiter's badge. He wasn't the least bit surprised to see an officer. "What can I do for you, Detective?"

"We're here to speak with Jonathan Sandalwood. We understand he's performing here Friday."

"The show premieres Friday," the doorman nodded, "that's correct. Unfortunately, Jay isn't in right now. He dashed off before evening rehearsal to take care of personal business."

Shawn saw ahead of the burly doorman to the sunken seating area. Aglow in tepid blue lighting, an intimate table of individuals were enjoying an expensive bottle of vodka and a whole lot of laughter. The most conspicuous individual had bejeweled hands, neck heavy with gold ropes, and something crooked, wicked, murderous in his tiny smile. Shawn supposed it was Chico Ramone—but couldn't think of a ridiculous or timid way of wringing a confession out of the suspicious doorman. It was easiest to feign knowledge than to find a way to acquire it.

"Jay's always talking about how fantastic it is working for a man like Mr. Ramone," Shawn said, having a slight idea that he'd stormed right over one of Lassiter's common queries. To indicate the same Chico Ramone, Shawn cast a look towards the table of a burgeoning secret society.

"Yes," the doorman replied. "No one ever complains about Mr. Ramone. So, you know Jay?"

"A little. Birds of a feather gotta stick together," he laughed and patted the Samoan's hefty arm, succeeding in pulling a laugh out of him. "He's my brother—my brother of the stage, that is. He taught me everything I know. I taught him a few things, too. Leave it up to that little harridan to tell me he wasn't going to be in tonight! What a liar. If he wasn't so cute I'd just want to—" he pantomimed wringing a neck, "ungh! You know what I mean? Know what I mean?" He found the doorman laughing with him again. The two of them smacked hands, once palm-to-palm, then knuckles-to-knuckles.

Lassiter had absolutely no idea what was going on, yet Shawn's congeniality with the doorman pleased. Shawn really was stupidly personable. "Do you have Mr. Sandalwood's home address? It's imperative that we get in touch with him."

"Don't look at me, man," Shawn said, raising his hands innocently. "I just got into town, back with the SBPD as a resident psychic, and Jay doesn't even know I'm here. He doesn't know that I know he's here. Last I heard, he was doing that big glam show in L.A."

"Yeah," the doorman had warmed up significantly to Shawn; Jay didn't talk much about what he'd done before but a handful of people in the theatre heard snippets of rumors, "yeah, a good show there, too. Let me go back and see if I can get his address and phone number for you, Detectives."

"I'm not a cop," said Shawn, the same time that Lassiter said, "He's not a cop."

But it was a "right, well, whatever" expression thrown at them by the doorman before he strode into the building's bowels. Chico Ramone stopped him. The two passed some words.

"Calm down, it's nothing threatening," Shawn told Lassiter. "He wanted to know if it was foggy yet. Doesn't even seem to care about us."

"Maybe he doesn't want to appear interested while we're still here. Is it too late now to say that I think this was a bad idea?"

"Relax, Carlton, would you, if you're capable of it? Think happy thoughts. Teddy bears in tutus and—and your favorite—"

"Don't say it!"

"I was going to say your favorite Oak Ridge Boys song. H'mm. Wonder what you were thinking?" He made sure Lassiter saw him drop his gaze towards his hips, to what might be under the cotton-wool blend trousers. Lassiter growled and tried to step away from the suggestive line of sight. "Three words for you, dude: Unresolved sexual tension. When you look it up on Wikipedia, you will see a photo of yourself right next to a really steamy, sexy picture of me. Be sure to check out my perfect calves. They'll make you cry."

Lassiter wasn't annoyed enough to let Shawn humiliate him. Though it was difficult to imagine a sexy picture of Shawn, given his current wardrobe selection. "You look like an unmade bed, Spencer."

"Not—" self-consciously folding his arms and running a little hot inside, "not always. I'm just a little under the weather right now. And I'll thank you not to rub it in. What are we doing now? Go after Jay Sandalwood? We know Chico Ramone is involved, so that means I might be right and Jay is the next victim."

"I don't want to go on a wild goose chase. Since Ramone owns this joint, it's not likely he'll have Sandalwood killed before Friday night's performance. He wouldn't risk losing money." But his voice lowered to a level of sensitivity not often used in front of Shawn. "I want you to go home. No, I mean it. I'll take Detective Fa—ielding—"

Shawn's lips twisted upward. Detective Fielding's horrid epithet was quite contagious.

"Detective Fielding, and visit Mr. Sandalwood's house. It's not something you need to do right now."

For once, Shawn did not argue. He had that sick feeling of fatigue spreading mercilessly from marrow to pore. Oh, it was a gross thought. He'd had a day of extreme highs and extreme disappointments. The image of his closeness with Carlton leapt at him from nowhere, and he shuddered from the remembrance of ecstasy—only to be jolted back into the present by an attention-nabbing tap at his arm. Across the expanse of lights, darkness, little round tables and swirly modern chairs, the Samoan doorman and Chico Ramone made their way to the front entrance. The dancing boys and girls were permitted to take five by the choreographer, who, Shawn noticed, had been seated at the Intimate Table of Pricey Vodka. Apprehension rippled and squirmed from one side of Shawn's abdomen to the other. Chico Ramone was going to meet them—and then what? He had to think fast and hoped Lassie played along.

"Shawn Spencer," he started ahead of anyone else, holding out his hand, "and this is my partner, Milton Bradley. No, no, not the baseball player—ha, no." A joke always put saucy, devilish millionaires off their guard, and Chico Ramone had yet to be an exception to the rule. "More like the—but that's not really—so! You're Chico Ramone! I've heard so much about you from various, able-mouthed individuals! Jay likes you. But—then again—who doesn't Jay like? He's like a puppy. Sit him on a stranger's lap and there'll be smiles and cotton candy for all."

Lassiter smeared a hand across his chin. How did Shawn come up with this stuff?

"I am so sorry you're missing Jay, Mr. Spencer." Ramone talked slow, haltingly, either a bit too fried by alcohol or a bit too cautious of his company.

"That's all right. Should've called first. He's never in one place too long, is he? But I'll be here for the show Friday. Won't we, honey?" he threw at Lassiter, just to see what would happen. According to Shawn's estimation, the result was not a whole lot of anything. Probably something delayed, saved for later. What Lassiter did with every ounce of his unvented frustration Shawn was determined to discover someday. Maybe it was still there, hanging out, and all he had to do was… Shawn inhaled to refocus. Who said men thought of sex every five seconds? Five minutes? Five minutes _and_ five seconds?

Chico Ramone wanted nothing from them but to meet friends of Jay's. "I didn't know he had friends in town." Shawn read it as Ramone keeping an eye on Jay's acquaintances. It hinted at a partnership, a cover-up, a conspiracy. Shawn's thoughts returned to the idea of a global prostitution ring, drugs, those diabolical plots he vaguely recalled from episodes of _Miami Vice_. Though Ramone offered no threat, veiled or exposed, Shawn breathed easier when Ramone's dinky mobile rang, taking him away. The Samoan nodded dismissively and held the door open for them. Without delay, Shawn wended into the graying afternoon, Lassiter close to his elbow.

It was colder, with a fine mist beginning to form the nearer they were to the station. Lassiter had to turn the vent temperature to a middle setting, lest Shawn start shivering. He'd thought about changing his mind, dropping Shawn off at the house, but Shawn said he would rather have his motorbike, "just in case." Then Lassiter's emotions had the audacity to actually worry about Shawn, and back at his desk the fretting found a voice.

"Are you going to be warm enough?"

"I'll be fine. It's not that far. I once road on I-75 through Ohio, Cincinnati to Toledo. It was raining in Cincinnati. It was snowing in Toledo. A little mist isn't going to melt me. I think I'll stop at the store and get us something for dinner. Any requests? I must warn you that I'm only a good cook when Lean Cuisine is involved."

Lassiter leaned into his seat, eyes hard on Shawn. "Please don't ask me for money."

"I would, except I don't need any. For once, I have plenty of my own." Shawn took his wallet out, flashed its few pale bills, and shoved it away.

"Will you please just go straight home? Don't retort. Just do it."

"Fine. I'll go straight home. Promise. But you're starting to show how much you care. It gets me right here." Shawn's collected fingers went into that dip where his ribs fanned out, where some piece of his soul regarded Carlton warmly, and always would. "Be careful at Jonathan Sandalwood's house. It probably isn't a good thing that Chico Ramone knows who we are. So, on my way out can I stop by holding and see the—"

"No," Lassiter grumbled.

"Are you—?"

"Will you just go home, Spencer?"

"Okay, okay, I'll go—but grudgingly. I'll miss you. We haven't been apart for more than a few hours since Friday." Because he knew no one was around, no one who'd care to look at them anyway, and because he hadn't disgruntled Carlton enough that day, Shawn playfully "Mwah'd" his mouth somewhere in that thick head of black and gray hair. Carlton haphazardly waved his hand about to get rid of Shawn a second faster. Such a reckless, unwanted smile hit the corner of his mouth as he watched Shawn vanish down the steps.

He was waiting for Fielding to return from a restroom break when the chief slipped up to the desk.

"Spencer go home?"

"Yeah. Why?"

From the folder she carried, a sheet was removed, given to Lassiter. "Forensics came back with an idea of what was in those pill bottles recovered from Summer Preacher's house and the Tree crime scene."

"Cocaine?" Lassiter reread it. "Really?"

"Ninety-two percent pure cocaine. If it were purer, it'd still be in plant form."

"Ninety-two percent is high enough." Lassiter put the copy of the report in his Avery Tree file, memories suddenly disgorged. "When I first joined the force, there was a big drug bust that involved cocaine that pure. But that was—that was a long time ago. We hardly ever hear about this sort of thing now. How do you figure it ties with Tree and Preacher?"

"I don't know, Carlton. That's why you're on the case. What'd you find out from Sandalwood?"

"Nada. He wasn't there. Fielding and I are going to check out his apartment. Do you know who owns the Tanglevine Club?"

Her thin brows rose up, in a taunt she always did when she knew the answer. "Chico Ramone? Found that out after you and Mr. Spencer were already on your way. Ramone owns several properties across the U.S. Some in Miami, a couple in L.A."

"Sandalwood's last show was in L.A. Avery Tree spent a lot of time there. It's too bad we don't know more about Preacher. Or where she is."

Vick sighed, and together the two of them contemplated potentialities better left unsaid. Fielding returned, a gloomy, grim sort of man, and Lassiter was lonely in his company. After spending so much time with Shawn Spencer, everyone else seemed insipid—so terribly—what was the word?

Tame.

-x-

Frederick Nietzsche once said that without music, life was a mistake. About this, Shawn could whole-heartedly agree. But that's rather where he drew the border between him and the Great Nihilist. Since there followed a bunch of quotes about God and humor—and possibly one or two about cheese. Well, every person in the world has a handful of good quotes throughout his or her life, and the rest are forgettable.

He prowled into the house, dressed in its silvery-blue illumination provided by a sun lost behind shifty gray clouds. The glow was just enough to find the remote, exactly where he last saw it—something that never, ever happened at his place—and put the digital music channels into action. First he tried the alternative mix. The White Tie Affair was playing. Good enough. It got him into the kitchen, to turning on the little light in the range hood, before it all backfired as soon as "Price of Company" ended. Fuzz guitars and screaming vocals did not a happy fake-psychic make, when he had a world of thinking to do. Shawn raced through the channel listings. In a smart approach to the case, so he thought, he chose the Trance station. It was not exactly Goa style or Psy, what he'd heard in the Tanglevine Club during rehearsal, but it carried a lot of the same rhythm.

"Fine. Okay. Let's deal with this for a while." The remote was dropped with a silent vow not to pick it up again—even if they played Tiesto. He would deal. "But please, oh please don't play any Tiesto."

Returned to the kitchen, Shawn had a sense of forgetting himself. His brain was distraught, overloaded by all the thinking he planned to execute. What did he normally do in these situations? What would he do if Gus were there, or Juliet—or if all four of them were together again in the capacity they'd been before fuss over bridesmaids' dresses and moments of innocent sexual tension?

"AHH!" cried Shawn, dumping his forehead to his palm and soothingly rubbing his fingertips along his hairline.

What did they do? Go for smoothies? An over-priced latte? Up until Gus and Jules departed for the honeymoon, the four of them had interacted quite a lot, socially. There were after-work drinks, dinners, even a trip to the movies, and a Saturday afternoon concert in the park. Nice events. Pleasant. Actual conversations, jokes, laughter, uncertain smiles dragged out of Lassiter. But this was different. That's what Shawn hated. Different. Maybe they'd have outings like that again, but it would Just Be Different; it certainly wouldn't be Sunday in the Park with George. Not that they sang—much. Not that any of them looked like Mandy Patinkin—and Jules certainly didn't resemble Bernadette Peters—

And, oh for the love of monkeys in pajamas, why was he thinking like this?

"They're married. Get over yourself, Shawn. It's not the end of the world."

He loved the feel of frosty mist on his face as he opened the freezer, but hated ferreting about, up to his elbows in bags of frozen veggies, since it brought back that penetrating cold. If he couldn't go out for the purpose of focusing his thoughts—he'd stay in, play chef, cook them something. The refrigerator was just as bare as Shawn's over at Fluff *n Fold, but he found enough goodies to whet the appetite. If pressed into it by a guilty conscience or sickness, he could cook. He'd acquired most of his skills during that summer spent at his great uncle's place in southern Indiana. Uncle Fenz was a bachelor, owned a significant hunk of something he called "a hobby farm," and believed a man was nothing if he didn't have a big breakfast. Such a three-skillet, ten-dish meal would've made Lassiter, used to toast and jam, practically faint at the thought of eating all of that before eight in the morning…

Nearly at the point of relaxation, as he shaped ground turkey into patties, listening to the vibration of trance in the background, his phone chirped to life.

"Hello, Father."

"Would it kill you to call me and let me know you're all right once in a while?"

"Oh, yes, I faced so many scenarios of death in the whole two hours since we last talked."

Henry was not the type to say what had brought about the sudden burst of worry, but he would state it in a roundabout style. "Well? Did you see Jonathan Sandalwood?"

"Alas, Dad, we did not. He wasn't in. I got a good look at Chico Ramone, though. I even shook hands with him. Looks like the Pillsbury Dough Boy toasted to a walnut-brown goodness. Not really how I pictured him. Now I'm picturing him packed into a Nature Valley granola bar. Lassie—iter," he couldn't really call him Lassie in front of his father, though Henry wasn't ignorant of the montage of monikers, "and Detective Fielding went over to Sandalwood's apartment. He's renting a place by the week, up north somewhere." Shawn paused, stirring the macaroni in its pot of simmering water. "Seems a little weird. Having a place far from the theatre. He has to be there every day."

"Real estate might be tight in town right now."

"Yeah, I guess…"

"If we'd known you were going to spend so much time at Lassiter's, Sandalwood might've had your place."

"Cute, Dad, cute. Downright adorable, in fact. I wish we'd talked to him, though. Can I ask you something? Wait. Make that two things."

"Oh, go ahead."

"First, and most importantly, what do I put on turkey patties to make them taste, you know, the opposite of bland? Salt and pepper? Garlic? I'm pretty sure Lassiter's not an onion powder kind of guy."

"Shawn! Are you still at Lassiter's?"

"My things are here. And some guy broke into my apartment. Remember? The guy all of you crazy cop-like, badge-wearing people in really bad ties won't let me talk to."

Something in it snapped the reins on Henry's sharp temper. "You know, ever since that time I caught you—"

"Can you not bring that up right now?"

"Upstairs in your bedroom with some guy—I've had my—"

"Dad. I told you. Friend of mine. Had to stay the night because his uncle threw him out. That was—" Shawn calculated it as quickly as he could, "almost twenty years ago."

He was sure this would have been forgotten by his father by now. Shouldn't he have known better? Henry Spencer rarely forgot anything. The dog house, started in 1989, certainly was an example of a memory built on his son's most embarrassing and terrible moments. At least his mother's remembrances were a bit softer, though she hadn't been around for the mentioned debacle. It had been awkward. Shawn had given his dad the excuse immediately, so that it seemed natural, but he was rather sure he'd taken it out of a sitcom plot, perhaps something from _Boy Meets World_. He would've been thrilled to wave the bisexual flag back then if he'd known it would turn into a successful irritant. Anything that bothered Henry Spencer was worth the price. But spending a lot of time with a boy was not considered as threatening as spending a lot of time with the wrong kind of girl. Shawn had let Dave spend the night. Had for several nights. They'd dated a total of six weeks but to a teenager whose mother had just left, it seemed like a large piece of a lifetime. That was before he'd told Gus about it. That was before he started applying alcohol to the bisexual side. Before excuses. Before Jules and Abigail and other feminine temptations. And far before he'd lived through that wonderful, beautiful, beguiling moment in the kitchen—that very kitchen—with Lassiter.

What had happened that morning?

"Put pepper and salt on it."

The prosaic comment from Henry disintegrated any contention between them.

"Oh," Shawn said, finding his fingertips were still on the wooden spoon, that the macaroni had stuck a little to the bottom. "So I did it right. Who knew?"

"What I usually do is finely chop up a sweet onion and mix it in with the meat before I make the patties. Gives it a nice flavor along with some good texture. You want to make sure they're cooked nice and even on both sides. Cook them until the juice runs clear. Got that?"

"Yeah. Thanks. All I learned about cooking I got from two places: working at the Chesapeake Diner for three weeks, and from my summer with Uncle Fenz. How is Uncle Fenz?" Not that Henry Spencer would know. Fenz was Mom's great-uncle, grandmother's baby half-brother. It wasn't a surprise that Henry claimed no knowledge of Uncle Fenz's state of health and happiness. "That wasn't my second question, by the way. I couldn't be capable of such a segue with a raging headache."

"What's the second question?"

"It is this, good father: Why would Chico Ramone be at the Tanglevine Club, watching a rehearsal, when its superstar dancer isn't even there? And he couldn't have been there too long before Lassiter and I walked in. He asked about the weather conditions. Fog. H'mm. Who is it that always brought fog? Oh. Dracula. Dammit. Why didn't I look at the vampire angle before? That makes total sense!"

"If you mean that it makes absolutely no sense, then you're on to something. Maybe Ramone's going somewhere. Flying out of the airport. He couldn't do that if it got foggy."

"That is very astute."

"I'll call the airport and check private flights."

"I can—"

"No, I got this one. You've been working too hard, anyway. And you have food to cook."

Shawn argued with an internal voice that suggested Dad was being far too considerate—a little too tactful. It must be pity: boo-hoo, Gus is gone and Shawn is all alone—with Lassiter for company. But Dad usually moved up a notch or two on the Niceness Chart following one of Mom's visits. "Call me if you hear something."

"I'll call you if there's a suspicious flight. If there isn't, I won't bother. When's Lassiter coming home?"

A gentleness in his father's tone swayed Shawn. Under its presence, anything seemed possible. It'd been a long time since Henry had asked his son a question in such a cadence of genuine interest.

"I don't know. I'll send him a text message. Also, this might be classified as question number three, maybe four, but I don't suppose the reports came in on Avery Tree, have they?"

"Autopsy didn't find anything that I know of. Seemed to die from drowning. No unusual contusions to indicate he struggled. But he had some scratches, probably bumped into something, and some bruises on the back of one of his legs. Not suspect at this point. Summer Preacher said she didn't hear anything."

"She said she didn't hear anything but a splash. Wow, a witness who tells the truth. How's that possible?"

"What can I say? It's a new and exciting world."

"So why didn't Vick tell me this?"

"I just got a call from her myself."

"And that's why you called? You should've told me, like, right away. Dad. I'm hurt."

"You'll get over it. I thought you would ask. And you did. So what's the problem?"

"You know, I almost love you right now."

Henry didn't mention that Lassiter could tell the rest, a precaution in case Lassiter chose not to disclose any further information to an over-worked, over-stressed Shawn Spencer. He wasn't immune to his son's emotional and physical weariness, and knew Lassiter's observance would be just as hale. "Goodbye, Shawn. Don't burn your turkey burgers."

The oven timer said three minutes until the macaroni was fully cooked. In that time, Shawn hastily messaged Carlton. Not being much into text messaging, he considered himself savvy that he could fetch voicemail, Lassiter rarely messaged back. To Shawn's surprise, he did receive an "ok" after sending "Lassie, come home!" A seamless capitulation seemed a bit odd. Hastily, Shawn thought his message might've been too deeply interpreted. This was a guy who'd studied Russian literature, after all. It implied that Mayakovsky might have written political odes to Lassie coming home from exile, but Shawn thought he'd better err on the side of safety. He wrote back: "Am fine. It's just that your dinner will be cold soon."

Lassiter read the message standing in the medicine aisle at the nearest market. The touch of domesticity brought back tangled, bittersweet memories of a failed marriage—or, to put a finer point on it, a failed closeness with another person. He didn't text a response. Sending two text messages in a day was two too many, really. But he picked up some daytime cold medicine and Shawn's mentioned-in-passing box of Theraflu—and headed to the queue with his assortment of purchases. He was so tired his bones were sore, and all he wanted was to get home, sit in the quiet, and tell Shawn a few things.

He smelled food and heard the most ridiculous "music" coming from the television. Shawn greeted him, already used to the odor of cooking burgers, and smelled sweet rain off Lassie's jacket, the way dampness brought out dormant scents of shampoo and cologne.

"Is it raining?"

"It's trying to. Just really foggy out along the shore. What the hell are you listening to?"

"This is trance, my friend. Welcome to the rave. I was trying to recreate the atmosphere from Tanglevine. I thought it might help me think. Though that was really psy-trance, not vocal trance… Hey!" Shawn protested Lassiter turning the television off completely. "Not even some New Age? A little Yanni to close out the end of the day? Though you strike me as more a Ryan Farish devotee." But he was too easily distracted, this time by the tempting brown sack left on the bistro table. "I love brown paper packages even if they're not tied up with string. Brown sacks leave everything to the imagination. Plastic bags aren't like that, all meanly sheen and slightly translucent, giving away their secrets. Shame on them. Brown sacks are so mysterious. What'd you get me? Oh, Theraflu! God, you are the best human that ever had bad taste in ties. Have I told you that lately—ever?"

Lassiter tried not to let the profusion of gratefulness pervade his tough exterior. By six o' clock, the exterior started to feel porous, completely penetrable. Especially when Shawn's eyes were that strange mixture of brown and gray, like desert mountains at moonrise—or other poetical similes that bombarded his after-hours persona. "You can't get sick. If you want to solve this case, you can't get sick."

"I never get sick."

"You never had your best friend married before." Lassiter quickly amended. "Well—not really."

Shawn winced a little, recalling Gus's former spouse with amusement and a touch of rancor. "There's just something about Mira. Poor woman. She's working at a winery in Brazil now or some such thing. Terrible life. Well, to each his own muscat vine. Supper's ready."

With Lassiter following him into the kitchen, Shawn flamboyantly lifted the lid and dramatically gestured to the macaroni and cheese within, then to the turkey patties kept warm in the lidded skillet. "You can fix yours how you like it. There isn't any onion. Well, I take that back because that's a lie. There is an onion." Shawn took it out of the wastebasket under the sink and flashed it at Carlton. It had many green spikes out its top, that Shawn used to hold it up, and a mushy black spot on the bottom. "Is it still an onion if it doesn't function as one? Onion Abusers Anonymous wants to know."

He left Lassiter to do what he would with the provided victuals. Grabbing Brad from the windowsill, he put the plant on the bistro table, moved the groceries out of the way, and allowed the light from the kitchen and a lamp in the living room to give their slightly romantic flare. As a last minute addition, he dragged his knapsack over and slapped against the tabletop his notebook, pen clipped to the top spiral. As much as he loathed the idea of "shop talk" at the dinner table, it seemed unavoidable, downright inevitable. His mind was papered with questions.

"What do you want on your burger?" came from the kitchen. Shawn smiled a little. Would this ever get old? Would Lassiter ever tire of him and kick him out? Sooner or later, Shawn had to go back. He knew it. His rent was due next week, and there was no getting out of that.

He tried to eat but his appetite was discouraged by a tongue that tasted only the cardboard side of turkey burger and macaroni and cheese. What if he was getting sick? He'd go for a five-mile jog and that would put an end to it. He tried not to be shocked when Lassiter failed to bring up the case. Though when Lassiter eyed the notebook, and asked if he could look in it, Shawn hesitated, trying to imagine if anything in it implicated him as a phony psychic. Lassiter retracted his interest.

"I talked to my dad," Shawn blurted out, apropos nothing. "He told me the autopsy report wasn't helpful."

"No, but it meant Summer Preacher was telling the truth."

"If she was, then why was she so scared? Scared enough to run away? That doesn't make any sense. She must know that Avery Tree's death wasn't an accident. And she knows Chico Ramone's involved. She wouldn't have mentioned his name if she didn't want us to know about him, the Tanglevine Club, Jay Sandalwood. What'd you find at his place?"

"Much of the same. A sterile atmosphere with a whole lot of nothing. I wish we'd—"

"I knew you were thinking that, Lassie." Shawn leaned back and pushed away the plate. He liked his homemade refections with flavor. "I'm sure now that Sandalwood was at the club when we were. I didn't know it then." Disappointment in himself allowed him to perceive it in Carlton. "I'm sorry I let you down, man. That sucks of me. I'm off my game and everyone knows it."

"We didn't have a warrant. Ramone could've asked us to leave and come back with a warrant—or buy a ticket for Friday's show."

"Dude! We're so going, right?"

"We should meet with Sandalwood before that." Lassiter's eyes had this trick of scanning the thin air to better categorize his racing thoughts. Often, Shawn observed this with an appreciation for Carlton's investigative skills. Henry had cited that Lassie, as a rookie, hadn't shown signs of the genius that was to come. "If I believed in your powers, Spencer, I'd have you tell me where he is right now and we'd go after him. Detective Fielding wasn't very happy about being dragged all the way out there to find no one at home. Figures. Dammit. I miss O'Hara."

Shawn's sympathetic grin hung limp before evanescing. All old and wrinkly and gray, with Juliet's grandchildren bobbing on his knee, Lassiter would still call her O'Hara. Though Jules was being tight-lipped about whether or not she was going to change her last name. The O'Haras of her clan were proud people, full of loud women with good hair, and quiet men with eyes that were too close together. She was as likely to go by O'Hara-Guster as she was to stick with O'Hara. It was no matter to Lassiter. His mind was a difficult beast to alter.

"Jules does put her special spin on things, doesn't she? Well, as it happens, I can't help you. I don't know where Jay Sandalwood is. Or why his friends call him Jay and not Jonathan. What's wrong with the name Jonathan? I can't even tell you what he looks like. I get the impression he's sort of short, muscular, lean-hipped and dark-haired. With nice ears and a gorgeous, gorgeous instep not seen since the days of Ann Miller."

Lassiter glared under this assembly of unusual details. "He's a dancer. Of course he would be fit. No, don't." He waved his hand to protest Shawn clearing the dishes. It was a marvel that Shawn held a touch of neatness. "I'll get it. You should probably rest."

"Why, that's so sweet of you, Lassie. Or are you doing this to get me out of the way?"

Experience informed Carlton not to play up to this want of attention. Like everybody, Shawn was easy to deal with once one learned how. The tricky part had been not strangling him before the lessons ended. "Do you want your medicine now or before you go to bed?"

"Later," Shawn said. The thought of bed invited a yawn, a stampede of sorts straight to the couch. "I need to stay up for a while and think."

But he thought more of going to the opening night show with Lassiter than about the case. He and Carlton rarely did things alone. Now, of course, they had their run of reasons, and being in attendance Friday night would gather knowledge about Chico Ramone and how he ran his club than an actual date. Imagination along that line ran its course, dived into picture the two of them dating one another. They'd been coworkers so long, friends in a way, that it seemed like they'd done the dating thing already, really—without awkward goodnight kisses and splendid morning pillow talk. He couldn't hold those idealistic images, either: they scattered into the desultory shadows of reality. Lassiter was Lassiter—and that was all. Shawn was hopeless against it, whether he was crushing on Lassie or actually doing the damnable thing by falling in love. So used to getting what he wanted, he believed it was time to send aggression into abeyance. He had to think about it, anyway, whether or not he really wanted Lassiter in any form beyond friendship. What good would it do to decide such a thing? His heart would or it wouldn't. He knew his stubbornness well. The time came to take the passive approach: He'd let Lassiter choose. Even as the warm being sunk into a spot by Shawn's feet, and didn't protest as cold toes pressed against his thigh, the choice belonged to Lassiter. He meant too much to Shawn to manipulate, if, really, that's what he might've done that morning in the kitchen. Who'd shown up in nothing but a towel, smelling like eucalyptus, all dripping and probably a little irresistibly handsome? Oh, that's right, _he had_.

He was half awake with the sounds of a baseball game permeating the hazy enclosure of exhaustion. Opening his eyes later, it occurred to him that Lassiter was watching the Padres and the Reds. Bottom of the third.

"Is that Todd Coffey pitching for the Reds?"

"Todd Coffey was traded to the Brewers, Spencer. Years ago."

"But he looks like Todd Coffey. I'm not wrong."

"I think you're delirious. That's Bronson Arroyo."

"Who looks like Todd Coffey!"

"I can't even tell you in how many ways he doesn't resemble Todd Coffey. It's all moot anyway because Coffey is a relief pitcher for the Brewers and has been since 2009. This is the Reds and the Padres. Not your fantasy baseball team."

"Dude, why you getting all upset about this? He could've been traded back."

"Yeah. For who?"

"I-I don't know! Trade deadline's not until the end of the month! Things happen! And, for your edification, Carlton, my fantasy team has Arroyo, not Coffey. I mean that on oh so many levels. Tell me you don't want to just touch Arroyo's cornsilk locks. Come on." He curled his toes around the end of Lassiter's knee.

Lassiter rolled his eyes a little, despite how comfortable it was having someone around who could argue baseball, albeit ridiculously. It beat O'Hara and her repository of useless facts. "Are you feverish? Ready for your Theraflu?"

"You seem in a rush to get me drugged and in bed. Most men would find that repulsive." Against his sense of humor, years in the making, Shawn pulled his mouth shut and let the comment rest. He was served his hot remedy a few minutes later, permitted to linger on the sofa as he'd been, provided he kept opinions regarding the game to a minimum. "What's going on tomorrow?"

"I go to work. You stay here. Or do whatever it is you do."

"Good. I need to do some laundry. Do you have any delicates you need washed? All right. Another RBI for the Padres, and since my psychic vibes are telling me the Reds will come back in the top of the eighth, I'm taking myself to bed." He would've said something expected and coy, like "your bed or mine?" but it was in his mind now to let Carlton initiate.

Had he been truly gifted with psychic prowess, Shawn would've been privy to Lassiter's thought that his interim roommate left the living room without much of an incident. Not even a fake goodnight kiss, not even a lewd remark. He just sauntered sleepily out of the room, and a tattling creak suggested he'd closed the door partially.

Therein, Shawn stayed asleep until snapping awake, freshly tossed out of some lively dream. He knew his body, knew his mind, and both agreed he'd never fall back to sleep. Expecting the worst, he delved a hand beneath the pillow for his phone. What a relief to see it was a quarter till five rather than a quarter till four. It made such a huge difference.

Hopped from bed, he put on clothes—he seriously needed to do laundry or go back to Fluff *N Fold to restock—and, in stealth mode, successfully snuck out of the house. Ten minutes later, he was ensconced in the vibrantly lit Psych office, facing the glass writing board in a deep state of contemplation.

Cases came in stages, usually three, like the acts of a decent play. In stage number one, the available information was chaotically out of order, very little made sense, but all the highways to solving the crime were there. Days after Juliet and Gus's wedding ceremony ended with Shawn and Lassiter investigating Avery Tree's suspicious death, Shawn acknowledged that they were still in Act One. He groaned a little, rubbed a temple, and dashed for his coffee.

It almost fell out of his hand the moment he spun around to see a silhouette at the window. A man behind the Psych lettering looked in. Sensing no threat but an urgency to understand, Shawn went to the front door, unlocked it, and there the man stood. It was one of those instances that Shawn could buy into his own powers of futuristic perception. Dark of hair, lithe of step, lean-hipped and owning two of the loveliest ears that side of Los Angeles.

"You're Shawn Spencer," said the guest, quivering slightly.

"And you're Jonathan Sandalwood."

"Wait—before you say anything… Look, this is a huge mess. I've been walking by for the last couple of hours, waiting for you to show up, even if I had to walk by another five hours. I didn't know where else to go. There's been a misunderstanding, Mr. Spencer."

"Shawn, please, Jay. Call me Shawn."

"But that's just it, Shawn." Desperation on every inch of his pretty face, he tapped a hand to his chest. "I'm not Jonathan Sandalwood."

"I'm sorry—but what?"

"I'm Avery Tree."

Shawn invited him in, closed the door, and with Mr. Tree-Sandalwood's back turned, mouthed "What the heck?" He wished Gus had been there to give his customary nod of agreement.

What the heck, indeed.

-x-

tbc


	6. Part the Sixth

Part the Sixth

-x-

Some people, when they cannot sleep worth a damn, find that switching sides of the bed, or perhaps finding a worthy sofa in the middle of the night, will enable a swifter drift into sleep, and stay asleep longer. Shawn Spencer not only switched sides of the bed but also rotated ninety degrees counter-clockwise, so that his feet were where his head usually was, and his head was where his feet usually were. It seemed this helped the travesty of waking betimes, the impressive hours that followed Avery Tree parading his paranoid self into the Psych office—and the ennui affecting Shawn once returned to Mee Mee's Fluff *N Fold (Santa Barbara's Cleanest).

If Burton Guster hadn't been teased (and then nagged, as permitted new brides) by a worried Juliet into calling Lassiter to find out what was going on, Shawn's phone would've never rung at 12:30 Tuesday afternoon, and he might have had a decent sleep until 12:38.

"Hemma hu—oh, hewwo?"

"Shawn, is that you?"

Shawn rolled over to his back, sniffling to test if his head was clearer, if his sinuses were going to rap the hell out of his nasal passages that day. Concluding that he was all right, exhausted but otherwise functioning, he let the morning news rush back into him. Rest was a nice way to eschew all that important case-worthy stuff.

"Dude, I was going to call you. I swear I was. What's going on? How's Jules? Where are you?"

"Never mind that." A little something suspicious rose in Gus's voice as he said: "Isn't there something you'd like to tell me?"

"Tell you? Oh. Yeah. There was. How come you didn't tell me _Monster Squad_ was out on DVD?"

"First of all, I didn't know. Secondly, that's not at all what I meant when I asked if you have something," in his smoothest, slyest, most provoking voice now, "you want to tell me."

"Let me get my bearings a minute. I had to sleep upside down. You know how that messes me all up."

Shawn sleeping backwards in bed had been a Big Warning Sign to Gus since they were kids. Through the phone, he heard rustling, Shawn's hoarse breathing, and, briefly, the tap in the bathroom running.

"Haven't you got something to tell me about, I don't know, about not being at Lassiter's anymore?"

"Hang on there, you globetrotting chocolate truffle. That's why you're calling me? And here I thought it would be about Avery Tree not being dead."

"Avery Tree's not dead?"

"Didn't I just say that? Gus, would you pay attention? You make me second guess myself. No, he's not dead. He's alive. And really cute."

"Shawn, would you focus?"

"Normally I'd say no to that, but his cuteness happens to be part of the story."

"I doubt it. Unless," Gus dragged the word out in his dramatic inflection, "unless he's the reason you're not staying at Lassiter's anymore."

"Please, am I that homeless and Tom Jane? I left Lassiter's, if you have to know, because it was the right thing to do. Dammit! Will you remind me to requisition one of those pants-putter-onner machines? It's really hard to put pants on when trying to keep the phone to your ear."

"I'm getting you a headset for your birthday."

"That's so banal. I'd rather have a pants-putter-onner machine. Hook me up with your Dr. Bunsen Honeydew connections."

He told Gus to wait, and Gus obliged, because he had no other choice. While silence went on the end of the line, he made a puzzled face at Juliet, who returned it. Either Santa Barbara had picked an inopportune time to develop a Weird Case Syndrome, or they had picked an inopportune time to cross the Atlantic for a honeymoon.

Shawn dressed rapidly, found a clean shirt, and, tugging it on, leered at the iPhone on his messy bed. Horror-stricken, Shawn blanched, gulped, and feebly set the phone to his ear.

"I just thought of something. You there?"

"Of course," Gus replied. The change in Shawn's emotion was obvious. "What's the matter with you?"

Shawn stared into the foggy, drippy morning. He felt the same coldness within. Mistakes hurt for a moment, but when the pain had gone, at least he had a memory of having done what he'd wanted for a little while. "I was thinking. You know I love you and I love Jules, and I love that we live in a day and age where talking to each other on very different parts of the planet—although they speak English there—but, dude, they deep fry candy bars—"

"Only in Scotland, Shawn."

"I should've asked you to bring me a deep-fried Curly Wurly. Wow, what was I thinking? Anyway, anyway, that's not the point! The point is that you can't afford to keep calling me while you're all the way over there, and I know I certainly can't afford to call you—so please stop calling me."

A brief silence on the end of the line.

"Gus? You there, buddy?"

"Is that what's worrying you?"

"I-I don't—worrying me? Not until, like, five seconds ago. I didn't even think about it. And I'm so, so sorry I didn't think about it sooner."

"I got it covered, Shawn."

He emoted surprise and confusion just as if Gus had been right there. "You—do?"

"Actually, your dad had it covered. That was his wedding present to me: a promise to pay my phone bill next month. He bought me and Juliet a very tasteful set of hand-painted glass tumblers."

Shawn's laden chest recovered from its ordeal. He breathed, stuck a laugh in it, and immediately felt untroubled. "I can't believe this…"

"It was real thoughtful of him. The glass tumblers are nice, too. Little daisies and tulips on them. Juliet and I are already planning a Sunday brunch in order to fill them with mimosas. Can we get back to the old subject? Why did you leave Lassiter's?"

"I told you, it was just time. You know how I always like to stick around in theaters to read credits in case anything interesting shows up?"

"No. But I'll pretend you like to read credits just to follow along with your story."

"Never mind. You're sucking the happy juice out of it. And it doesn't have a lot of happy juice to start with. I got back there this morning after being at the station for way too many hours and just knew it was time to come back here. Also, I can't tell you anything about Avery Tree because you're not consulting on the case technically. I am. I wasn't—the Chief hated that that guy broke into my place—but it turns out the guy was actually hired by Avery Tree—the real Avery Tree—only he got a little out of control. You just can't find loyal goons these days outside of a Disney movie. Brown was more interested in doing what his real employer, Mr. Ramone, told him to do. Which included doing what Mr. Tree told him to do. So I decided not to press charges."

"Not press charges! Are you crazy?"

"I hear that I am, yes," Shawn said in his insouciant, prideful fashion. "I dropped the charges."

"But he did break into your place."

"I don't know that for sure. There was no sign of forced entry. Maybe I left the door unlocked. I've done it before. How many times have I left the door to the Psych office unlocked?"

"I lost count around five."

"See! And this is my apartment. Ranks way lower on the consequence scale. It's not like there's anything important in here." The gesture to his big, two-room place was void of adoration, only a riveting disdain. "I don't even have a house plant."

"You have an original VHS version of _Star Wars_ in a mint condition clamshell case, Shawn. Don't tell me you don't have anything important."

"But it's locked up and in that funky cove in the box spring. No one could find it."

"A bloodhound trained to sniff Star Wars memorabilia could find it."

"Yes, it's there, I checked, before you get all Treadstone 71 on me. I found packages of apple and orange Pop Rocks in there, too, dude, and you know those are limited edition flavors."

"I'm getting some of those."

"You know that's right. So, you see, things are under control." Shawn inhaled, an emender coming. "As soon as we figure out who the dead guy is that's in the pool, if he's not Avery Tree and he's not Jonathan Sandalwood."

"Who?"

"He's the guy that—ah, great, great, the Chief is calling me. Do you believe it? Such love! I gotta go. Have fun. Watch out for a woman in a yellow coat and—and riding a red bicycle."

"That was in a Lily Allen video, Shawn."

"Still, the warning remains, Gus. Don't forget my Fruit Pastilles. And now I want a Curly Wurly if that's possible. Eh, never mind that. I can order a box of six off Amazon." He waited for Gus to give a hurried farewell, switched lines, and greeted Chief Vick enthusiastically and rather affectionately. "Chief Cupcake, what's up?"

"Don't ever call me that, Mr. Spencer."

"I still haven't figured out what the 'C' in your middle name stands for, that's all. Candy? Chill? Were you named after Chill Wills?"

"Listen, if you're dropping charges against Thomas Akroyd Brown—"

"Dropping? It's done! I've been back in my 'fluffed and folded' cube five whole hours, and he hasn't even bothered showing up here."

"I thought you might like to know, if Lassiter hasn't already told you, that Brown didn't leave here alone."

"Did he split in two? Was one of them Michael Keaton? Chief, this has me very excited."

Vick had learned to ignore, or at least mentally invalidate, Shawn's interruptions. "He left with someone that Detective Fielding identified as a lawyer for Chico Ramone."

"Ah…" Shawn said, feeling enlightened. "In my dreams last night, I had visions of a giant vine, and wrapped up in the tendrils were Brown, Summer Preacher, Avery Tree the Real One, and Avery Tree the Fake One. The vine was controlled by Chico Ramone. He was wearing a Speedo, black socks, mid-calf height, and calling for more Kahlua in his cake. Ugh, it was disturbing."

"I can imagine. You don't usually have psychic visions in your dreams, do you?" Vick managed to say it loud enough as Lassiter walked by her open office door, and there was a definite hesitation in his steps, but he elected to continue his route.

"There's far less sweating and dry-heaving involved when I receive my visions consciously."

She didn't know if Shawn Spencer's capabilities were part of an elaborate scheme, and she'd never bothered to find out. It was a moment like that, when he was so sincere, quiet, seemingly still in spirit, that she could believe the best in him. From what she'd read, including his little run-in with the police when he was a teenager, he was a staggeringly brilliant youth who'd leapt out of high school and, as Henry put it, "ran off at full speed." And hadn't really slowed down since. Though Shawn had an innate desire to help people, he was as talented at coordinating time for himself as Detective Lassiter. It wasn't any wonder the two of them had formed an odd little friendship. She rummaged through a series of folders, some from vice, one faxed over from a precinct in L.A., finally supplied with the folder about the drowned John Doe.

"I'm calling specifically to ask if you have any—thoughts—about the man found in the pool."

"No," he said, unable to fabricate even the slightest clue. He closed his eyes, hating to do what his father had always commanded him to do, and tried to focus again on Saturday's crime scene. A pill bottle. Water. Lights in the pool. Shrubbery whispering in a touch of night wind. "I've got nothing. Except that I know the man is not Avery Tree. And I'm not even sure he's Jonathan Sandalwood. He'd better not be."

"The man in the photo doesn't fit Avery Tree's description of Sandalwood, or the surveillance video image of him we got from L.A. vice. Tree said that Sandalwood is blond."

"Blond? That's helpful. Asterisk footnote: sarcasm. What kind of blond? Are we talking Callum Keith Rennie blond or Dolph Lundgren blond? There's a big difference."

"Blond—I don't know what kind of blond."

"H'mm. For someone who didn't really want me on this case, Chief, you're sure keeping me on the phone a long time."

"You have somewhere you need to be?"

"Well," he drew the word around, down and then up, "I could slip away from the big list of nothing I've got and come into the station."

"I'd rather you didn't."

"I'm getting a feeling that I'm not going to get paid for this job, even if I do _help catch a mad killer_."

"We don't know that the man in the pool—"

"Was murdered? He had slight contusions on his wrists and some abrasions on his shin. Of course he was murdered."

"The medical examiner doesn't think those wounds connote murder."

"Connote, really? Come on, Chief. Stop being so mean."

"I do realize that not asking you to work too hard on a case is like asking a polar bear not to be cold."

"In a way…" Although he made a mental note not to laugh at Chief Vick's similes, ever. "But Avery Tree came to me, Vick, _me_. I was the only one he trusted."

"Yeah, that's great, Mr. Spencer! If we can't do anything for him, maybe he'll hire you to solve the case! Until then, we've got detectives from L.A. on their way here, a missing person to find, and a dead body's identity to discover."

"I'm coming in," Shawn averred, resolute and already bounding into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

"Spencer—"

"Vi-_iiick_. I've got one stop to make and then I'll be in."

"Fine. When might that be?"

"Oh, let's say a couple of hours."

"Couple of _hours_?"

"Yeah. Give or take."

Shawn brushed vigorously with one hand and he texted Lassiter with the other. "Can you meet me at Cafe Del Sol 115p? Bring some case info, pls? H and K's."

A minute later, Lassiter responded in the affirmative, after ruminating on the request simultaneously staring into O'Hara's vacant desk. It wasn't that he missed her with any sharper degree than he had yesterday, but that he wandered into a selfish mode: How soon after Gus and she returned might he be allowed to have a vacation for himself? There was always something. Trial appearances, papers to file, criminals to catch, each making it difficult for a cop to escape beyond a fifty mile radius of his home base. Difficult, but not impossible. He looked ahead in his appointment calendar, just to get an impression of dates, and saw most of September vacant. Juliet and Gus had talked about going to some sort of comic book convention in Georgia around the first weekend of September, but beyond that there lay the grandness of nothing. At Detective Fielding's approach, Lassiter surreptitiously closed the appointment book, shirked queries from Fielding, appointed him to some menial task he'd already started, and headed for the exit. He got as far as passing the Chief's door before being hailed.

"Lassiter, get in here."

He obliged, a raw pang of nervousness in his stomach, and absolutely refused to shut the door behind him. At her desk, Vick gave one of those tilted, sweet half-grins that tended to indicate an invasion of his privacy or handing him a chore he'd really rather not do. It turned out to be both combined, personal and professional.

"Please tell me you're on your way to lunch."

His shoulders straightened at the stalwart appraisal of his maneuvers. "I was, in fact. Why? You're not taking up O'Hara's torch, are you, about caring for my eating habits?"

"I just think you should go to lunch before the suits from Los Angeles get here."

Eyebrows mildly furrowed, Lassiter nodded vaguely. He wondered if that's why Shawn had asked to meet him to Cafe Del Sol.

"Of course it is," Shawn said, once Lassiter sat down at their cozy two-seat booth on the far inside wall; it was far too chilly a day to eat outside. Lassiter had the question in his mind during the brief walk. "I know what you call breakfast. And I know for a fact," he held his hand up beside his head, letting a twinkle come into his eyes that did not naturally rest there, "that those L.A. guns are going to keep you in the office straight through the evening. And they're not really the types that will let you eat and work at the same time. So eat now and be merry, Lassie, for tonight you must work. Can I see the folder on the John Doe? I want to compare it to what Woody showed me."

"Woody?" Lassiter looked up from the menu. "Woody the coroner? That Woody?"

"Is there any other kind? Would you want there to be any other kind? Food-wise, what are you thinking? Appetizer? I say we get the roasted guacamole and tortilla chips to start. It's like the ambrosia of the Mexican gods. Melts right in your mouth."

Lassiter, feeling a bit blank, ordered the roasted guacamole with the tortilla chips, while Shawn blatantly ordered virgin piña coladas for each, "just because." The drinks, along with glasses of water, arrived before Shawn elucidated on his adventure with the coroner. With Woody, it was always an adventure.

"I like Woody. I do. I especially like it now that I can just tell him I'm from the SBPD."

"Didn't you before?"

"What's the fun in that, Lass? Also, did you see that I was right about the Reds coming back in the eighth and winning that game last night?"

"Spencer, quit with the tangents."

"But I was right."

"Is that really important now?"

"Dude, I ask you: When are home runs by Joey Votto not important? Plus, he smiles and his dimples light up like diamonds. Fine, fine, I digress, you enabler."

Lassiter's forearms crossed upon the table, his mouth strained against the stress. They hadn't spoken affably since the night before. Their time in the morning, after Avery Tree consented to have the cops called in, had not been anything more than friendly fire. Shawn said he was dropping charges against Brown, that the whole thing was a misunderstanding, that he was prepared to stay at his own place. The last bit freed Lassiter, then stymied the hell out of him; but still, he didn't have the audacity or the care to demand Shawn give his key back, or even bark at him for having a copy made in the first place. Sometimes Shawn committed the most reprehensible actions in such an innocuous way. He had an unbreakable method of making the wrong things seem very right. The unorthodox, Carlton supposed, filtered grandly through Shawn. Or maybe after so many years they'd gotten used to each other. But that didn't stop him from rubbing away a tired and hopeful ache near his temple.

"What did Woody tell you that he didn't tell the rest of us?"

"Oh, I don't know anything about that," said Shawn, very chipper. "I just wanted to get a closer look at the abrasion on the back of his leg."

"The photos—"

"Photos are just photos to me, Lassie. They're like illustrations in a great big book of crime. Ultimately helping tell the story, sure, but you can't get the whole story just looking at the pictures. I need more than that." Plus, hadn't his mother told him to retrace his steps? He was willing to concede that perhaps his parents' advice was worthwhile. For instance, hadn't the bath, suggested by his father, worked a wonder? Shawn grabbed for breath, warmed by the recollection of Lassiter's nearness, that one fantastic moment shared between them. And he let go of the very same air, just as he'd let go of initiating a repeat of the experience. Nothing stopped him from _wishing_ for a repeat. How difficult it was to focus on a case when there was all of this looming between him and Carlton. The UST was one thing, but the two of them working together in the absence of Gus and Juliet, and adapting to the changes the two of them were forced to acknowledge, it was all so—disturbing.

"Look, the thing is that I want someone else, maybe Detective Faking—sorry," he raised a hand to add to his apology, "Detective Fielding, to find out who the guy in the pool really is. I want to find Sandalwood. Avery Tree's worried that something might have happened to him. He was at the Tanglevine Club yesterday."

"Who?" Lassiter could enter case discourse calmly, rationally, as he filled a little saucer with tortilla chips for Shawn once the guacamole dip appeared. "Are you talking about Sandalwood or Tree?"

"I'm ninety percent sure that Sandalwood was there yesterday, when we were. Where he went after that, only his dancing shoes know. He's probably running from Chico Ramone. Those guys from L.A. that are coming in, are they doing it because Ramone is involved?"

"Ramone's a functionary for at least two other tycoons still at large. But their territories are in the southern United States, from Virgin Islands to Texas. Apparently some syndicates in Chicago. No one seems to know why Ramone is in Santa Barbara."

"He came to see the man in the pool." Perhaps twiddling his fingers, widening his eyelids, sucked credibility right out of the statement.

"Is that your psychicness, or are you just guessing?"

"First of all? Psychicness? Not a word."

"Not a word?" cried Carlton. "You use it all the time!"

"Let me pounce on this. Not a word," Shawn raised his pointer finger and swung it around on his next word, "really. Since Gus isn't here, I have a moral obligation to speak for grammar when it cannot speak for itself. And secondly, I never guess when it comes to half-naked men dead in swimming pools. Thirdly, it must be said that you chose your suit well today. Blue gives you such an austere and roguish look. Trust me," he said, deflecting from his flirtatious intention by dunking another chip into dip, "someone knows why Ramone is in Santa Barbara. Tree says he doesn't. Unfortunately, he's telling the truth. He might receive his paychecks from Winfield Acquisitions, but he doesn't have any idea what Winfield Acquisitions does."

Shawn worked one tortilla chip after another through the guacamole. He'd rather let Lassiter mull over the case's details for a while. The tension rollicked but the silence was divine. It was odd, then, that when Carlton spoke, the case wasn't so much as a masked hint.

"You don't look like you slept well. How's your," because he was out of practice dealing with Shawn Spencer in an everyday manner, it had been easier when Gus and Juliet were around, Lassiter wasn't able to finish the statement eloquently, "sinus trouble? Gus told me a while ago you have allergies."

"Grass pollen. And perhaps David Fincher films, but they haven't invented a test for that yet. We're still holding out hope. I'm all right. I can't really taste my food. It all seems a bit grainy and has a piquantness akin to Gus's gym socks."

"Mine's delicious."

"My loss, and don't I know it."

"You had a good idea, Spencer."

"Cafe Del Sol is always a good idea. Remember when the four of us came here for brunch, and—" He'd fallen into the dreadful trap of Reminiscing. Something he vowed he wouldn't do while Gus and Juliet were gone. But the four of them had brunched at Cafe Del Sol, the morning after Gus and Juliet's engagement was laughably announced. Laughably—everything they did was imparted in some joke they'd slaved to execute.

"Can I ask you something, Lass?"

The rich sobriety of Shawn's intonation led Carlton to give in. As long as it didn't have anything to do with what had happened in the kitchen—he hadn't decided on that—and nothing to do with what would happen when O'Hara returned. "Sure. Go ahead."

Shawn enjoyed Carlton's rare flippancy. "Suddenly I wish I could ask a whole lot more. No. Seriously. Do you think we'll ever actually solve this case?"

Lassiter looked up at Shawn's face, unshaven, not particularly tan, as though they'd kept him locked inside too long, and the deep smoky circles under woeful eyes. "I don't know. Sometimes all the parts don't come together at the right time. Things happen. Things get in the way."

"Sometimes the bad guys get away."

"That, too. Why do you ask me this? Do you have—what do you call them? And I can't believe these syllables are even going to come out of my mouth. Do you have—Juju vibes," he cringed a little, "about the case ending badly?"

Shawn smirked, let it wilt, and smoothed a hand down the middle of the table, between glasses and plates and wrinkled straw wrappers. "It doesn't matter. I try not to think about it." But he lost the nerve to say the rest of his thought, simply rearranged it. "All my life, my dad wanted me to be a cop. But I could never really get a handle on what it would be like to be happy going to a job that exists because other people are miserable. Seems sort of counterproductive, doesn't it? I see now that it has its rewards. Few and far between. Closure for people. Shiny handcuffs. That whole fraternity thing. But, you know, other days I just really want to skip it all, not have anyone die for a whole month, and reward myself with a Clark bar, a churro, and a Frosty. Tell me you wouldn't like that once in a great while, Lassie."

Shawn followed Lassiter to the station, but lost him between the front entrance and his desk. The appointment calendar was still sitting in plain sight. Flinging himself into the chair, Lassiter sighed, recapitulating Shawn's statement as he flipped to the month of September. Not a day filled in. Thirty blank days. A beautiful but intimidating thing. He had time to fumble through the department's online network, looking for vacation request submission documents, and lamented the loss of pen and paper in the world. McNab solidified out of thin air at the end of his desk, his expression wary, and for good reason.

"The Chief just told me that the detectives from L.A. vice won't be here until later."

The brilliant gleam in Lassiter's blue eyes went out like a snuffed candle. His mouth tightened. Mexican cuisine in his tummy floundered in a rush of stress. "How—much—later?"

"Don't know. Later." McNab smiled sheepishly and wandered off before he got an earful—or, knowing Lassiter, an eyeful was enough. He passed a familiar man in a striped shirt, mangy old hoodie and jeans. "Hey, Shawn."

"Buzz! Good beanstalks, man, are you ever going to stop getting taller? Or am I getting shorter? Either one is entirely feasible. That reminds me of this Ziggy cartoon strip that my little Scotch grandmother used to have stuck on the refrigerator. Ziggy was—you know what? Not important. I'll ask you what is important: Did you give Lassie the bad news?"

"Signed, sealed and delivered. I'm surprised to still be alive."

"Yeah, you and me both. Uh-oh," Shawn espied Carlton at the desk, "he's reaching for the antacid. Anyone going on a smoothie run?"

"Kim from records said she might like to get a smoothie."

"Get an order going, would you? I think Lassie-bear needs a chilled mango pick-me-up."

Buzz lost all ability to speak when Shawn—the penurious Shawn Spencer—actually took out his wallet, removed a ten-spot from it, and slapped it in his hand. Frantically, Buzz waved the bill at Shawn's back, trying to call out to him. All he got was a dismissive hand wave.

"Lassiter," Shawn grabbed Arlette's chair, again unused by the absent detective, and rolled over, "if I ask really nice and give you my puppy-dog eyes, will you let me glance at the case file of Avery Tree again?"

"Here." Lassiter tossed it in Shawn's lap without looking. "Don't have time for your puppy-dog eyes, Spencer."

"What about later? Will you have time for them later? You know, don't answer that. With you, the element of surprise really works so much better. It's totally in your favor. Much like your lack of tie and all that gorgeous neck of yours just, wow, right there—and I'm shutting up now. So. I'm going to take this," he tapped a hand against the file, "over there," he pointed at Juliet's desk, "and give it the old psychic gander."

Ten minutes later, Lassiter passed Shawn on the way to chew fat with the Chief about the lateness of the vice detectives. Shawn was out cold. Lassiter wagged a hand in front of Shawn's face, but he didn't wake. Annoyed, he rolled his eyes and went on his way.

"I shouldn't even be so shocked."

"Shocked about what?" asked Vick, hearing him when clearly he hadn't meant his voice to carry so far.

"That the detectives aren't here yet."

Vick had a way of sinking into her chair, grinning up at him, that made him feel his lies were mere amusements. "Quick recovery, Carlton." She peeked through the slats in the blinds surrounding her windowed office to see Shawn's head parallel the desk. "I'm not shocked that he's asleep. He's not feeling well."

"How'd you know that?"

"I'm the greatest detective in the history of the Santa Barbara Police Department."

"No. Seriously. How?"

"Thanks a lot. If you'd like to know, I saw him earlier mixing up a dose of Theraflu. I hope he gets better soon. I'd like him alert when Los Angeles arrives. It wouldn't do if our psychic investigator can't impress the big city."

"Speak for yourself."

"I was."

"But I like that he's sick."

"Oh, I see how it is with you, Carlton. The bigger they are, the harder they fall. That sort of thing. You don't feel the slightest need to take care of him?"

"No," Carlton responded, wincing. How could she even ask him that? He felt personal boundaries being smooshed together. "He's managed to live, somehow, into his thirties. He knows enough to drop charges against a hooligan. I hope he knows how to take care of himself when he has a sissy little cold."

"So then the receipt I happened to see in the sack with Shawn's box of Theraflu really didn't have your name and the last four digits of your debit card."

"I—um—" There was no getting beyond this. Why wasn't there any getting beyond this? His toes began to sweat, as they did sometimes when Shawn's actions caused a stir. "Perhaps I should admit that your observational skills are a little—" he flagrantly cleared his throat, "a little sharper than usual. Well! You try living with him when he's _not_ sick. And then try living with him when he _is_, and we'll see how fast you rush out to the corner store for medicine. Thankfully, that's all over."

Vick enjoyed his sudden defense. "It's nice to know you can still be honest. What did you want to see me about?"

He tossed a feeble glance from one end of the office to the other, from corner to corner, to Karen Vick, and down to the helpless file in his hand that might as well be written in Ancient Arabesque Gibberish. "Dammit. I forgot." Silently, he backed out of the office, then immediately recalled. When he returned, he went straight to her desk and bent over it. "I couldn't find a vacation request form on the department's website."

She wondered why he was whispering. Who did he think was going to hear? Everyone would know sooner or later that Detective Lassiter was about to take a holiday. Though she whispered right back just to make him feel better. "Because they're not on the website."

"They're not?"

Her head shook. "Wait here and I'll get one for you." She was gone ten seconds, and came back smiling, waving a sheet for him to take, still warm from the printer's tray. "Let me know when you're planning to leave. We'll have a big party to celebrate."

He grunted, snapped the sheet viciously, and stalked out. His greeting to Henry was delivered as the two passed each other.

Henry stopped by O'Hara's desk. A hand delivered a wake-up slap to the back of Shawn's head. Out of sleep and an unrelated grogginess, Shawn grunted, groaned, flailed an arm around loosely.

"What do you want, Dad?"

"How'd you know it was me? You haven't even opened your eyes."

Shawn opened them then, brown and dusky and cool. "You've been using Arid antiperspirant since I was six. Come on! Give me some credit. I know that just like I know Lassie uses Old Spice. The chief prefers Secret, powder fresh. Juliet uses Lady Speed Stick," a pause while he thought about it, "and sometimes Tom's of Maine."

"I'm surprised you can smell anything. You sound clogged up."

"Yeah, I know," he did his Category 1 Whine while saying it. "Lassie got me some medicine and I'm trying to get better. See, this is the sort of thing that happens when Gus and Jules get married! I'll probably have a kidney stone when they have a kid. Get it? Kidney stone… kid. Why do I bother and what are you doing here?"

"I came to look at the Avery Tree file. And I heard a rumor that the guys from L.A. vice are due sometime soon."

"They hit the snooze button. Something about Elvis. You just can't leave your alligator without a competent baby-sitter."

Henry expected at least one _Miami Vice_ joke from Shawn. He half-leaned, half-sat on the empty side of the desk. "Where's the file?"

Shawn picked up the end of the gray folder and tugged. "You've sort of got your fat ass on it, Dad. Oh my gosh, lay off the cinnamon rolls! Wait. That might be me I was talking to." It whipped free, a corner a little bent.

"Right. We'll both give up sweets for Lent."

"Lent is a four-letter word, you know."

"So it is. Let's see what we have here."

"Why are you looking at this? You're a consultant guy. Not a—a—" his hand went up and down, "a reading files kind of guy anymore. Did you call the airport last night?"

"Yes. Of course I called the airport. Didn't I say I was going to call the airport? No flights going in or out under Ramone's name or known aliases. Is Avery Tree still here?"

"He's in holding."

"Is he being charged?"

"Have I _ever_ looked like detective, Dad?"

"Shawn, just answer the question before I have to bring Lassiter over here."

Lassiter looked heavily involved in whatever occupied him across the room. Shawn rubbed the back of his neck.

"No, he's not being charged. But he can't just go back on the street while Chico Ramone and whoever killed the fake Avery Tree are running amok—with ducks—in trucks."

"Knock it off, Dr. Seuss. Where is he?"

"Again—in holding. Until vice gets here."

"That's good. They'll want to talk to him. What's this Winfield Acquisitions?"

"Vice will have more on that, I hope. A fake business. Real estate."

Something lazily kicked and whimpered in the back of Shawn's mind. If a decongestant and an antihistamine hadn't been bounding through his system, he might have shaken the dust off that Something Lazy. But it was there again: Unreal Tree's death scene, the pill bottle, shrubbery, the wide open lawn, the pool. Whatever he needed wasn't there. It was in the background. Manipulating the scene. Then, in the way it happens, a minor thing flitted from the flotsam and into the forefront. It wasn't what he wanted. It wasn't the Something Lazy.

He relaxed: the chair knocked from tilt to straight. From the open file he pawed at crime scene photos. From a distance, Lassiter spotted the recurrent excitement in Shawn, and hastened to see what had caused it. Shawn continued to rotate the photographs. At one, he froze. Lassiter glared at it over his shoulder. A photograph taken fifteen feet from the body. How would that be important? He caught of whiff of Shawn's hair, given to him by a variable breeze. His insides turned to rubber. It was _Shawn_. Shawn who smelled that amazing, filled with that much energy. Lassiter sidled to bring an extra six inches between them. Shawn also claimed psychic powers. Perhaps it worked with closeness: the closer he was to a subject, the more he could read his or her thoughts. Of course, that was nonsense. Half of what Shawn Spencer did was nonsense. Lassiter reclaimed the extra six inches.

"What do you see?"

"In this case, Lassie, it's what I'm _not_ seeing that matters. Dude! Finally!"

McNab sauntered in, handed a pretty orange smoothie to Lassiter, dug change out of his pocket and put it in front of Shawn.

"Thanks, Buzz. You're a wonder. Seriously. I'm thinking of having you registered as the two hundredth wonder of the United States—and parts of Canada. Buzz, Buzz, wait!"

McNab steadied, gazing at Shawn, Lassiter (happily enjoying his smoothie), and Henry Spencer and his creepy scowl and glittering citrine ear-hair. "Yeah?"

"Who took these pictures of the Avery Tree crime scene?"

"Should be on the cover sheet." McNab turned a few pages and pointed to a name on it.

"Well, look at that! You know, I never read the through these things. Here." He took a dollar and slapped it into Buzz's hand. "Your tip, maestro, for your hard work. Lassie would tip you but he's busy consuming the awesome mango sweetness. Will you bring me," he read the name off the folder, "Officer Tyas?"

Shawn had seen Officer Tyas from time to time, one of those special types in forensics who pretended to be untroubled by all the gore they witnessed in a month of work. He had soulless eyes, an unaffected deportment, and absolutely no personality whatsoever. When Shawn made his request:

"Do you have any spare photos left over from the Unreal Avery Tree crime scene?"

Officer Tyas just stared at him. "Sorry?"

"You know, crap photos that you might have accidentally snapped but are possibly taking up space, even as we speak, on your camera's memory card. I'd like to see those, if I may."

Officer Tyas continued to gape. Shawn smacked the folder on the desk.

"Unless you mean to turn back the hands of time to all the seconds you've wasted, go now, Tyas, now! _Tout de suite_, man!"

Tyas couldn't get away fast enough. He'd often heard Shawn Spencer was a little cracked.

"What's your angle here, kid?" asked Henry. Nothing in the photos stood out to him. Maybe his eyes weren't as good as they were once.

"I keep seeing President Bush. No," he traced a hand around, lids closed, fingertips of his other hand to his forehead, "wait. I can't see which one… It's becoming clearer now… It's not a bush. It's a shrub. Yes, I'm definitely getting shrub. I'm getting Pine Sol. Pine mint. Pine sap. Those ugly things in Lassiter's back yard that I want him to take out."

"Arborvitae?" threw in Carlton. "What's the matter with my arborvitae?"

Shawn lost the psychic pose, speaking rationally to Carlton. "Really? They're all mangily and crooked. The branches look like Johnny Cueto's hair. I was thinking we could put in more of those orange flowery things—and another lemon tree. Maybe a dwarf one, you know, because it's so cute and—"

"Shawn," barked Henry. "Can the two of you discuss landscape tactics later?" He hoped it was the Later that came Next to Never. With Shawn and Lassiter's attention fixed on him, Henry deferred to the new arrival. A good-looking, lithe twenty-something whose shortness improved by wrenching his hair up away from his forehead ninety degrees. Henry wondered if all the men of Shawn's generation went to the same barber. The visitor's pass tacked to the hem of his rugby shirt gave no name. But he had something that Shawn wanted: Officer Tyas' memory card.

"Ah, there he is, the great arbor," cooed Shawn, taking the memory card and thinking again that Avery Tree was deliciously handsome, and adorable with a tiny pillow crease on his cheek. "Dad, this is Avery Tree. Avery, this is my pops."

"Henry Spencer. I'm a consultant here at the SBPD." Henry wanted to negate any potential thoughts of nepotism.

"Oh, so you're not," Avery stuck his hand beside his face and raised one eyebrow, "you know."

"Hey, that's good, very good." He was impressed with anyone who dared impersonate Shawn, especially right in front of him.

"Relax, Avery, he doesn't have the Gift. It skips generations, like receding hair-lines and the ability to laugh during Marx Brothers movies. Your aura looks downright sparkly and pearly, Mr. Tree. Did you meditate in the cell like I told you?"

"Yeah, it helped." He'd tried not to sound as bashful as he felt. The memory card was pointed to. He was used to strange people, being stranded in strange situations, but he was less worried about himself and more worried about the detectives from Los Angeles. "Officer Tyas gave me that on my way up. Said you wanted it."

"I wonder why he didn't bring it back himself? Was he on the phone? Eating one of those microwavable soup things? I know he likes tomato. Was it tomato?"

"No. Nothing like that. I think you frightened him."

Shawn hummed and falsetto laugh. Lassiter snickered and hurriedly rubbed it away. Trying to figure out where to plug in the memory card to look at the pictures, Shawn wrestled Lassiter and Avery away from Henry. He didn't like the way his father looked at Avery, as though words were printed on him—judging him for the life he'd led. Parts of it weren't by choice. According to the interrogation reports, Avery's only choice in life had come when he'd enlisted Shawn Spencer's help. Still, Avery hid something. Whether it was about the case, Chico Ramone, or who the dead guy was in the pool, Shawn wanted to put space between Avery and Henry Spencer, for the sake of peace throughout the SBPD.

In the video room, after a delay to figure out how to hook up the memory card, Shawn at last had what he wanted. He multi-tasked, endeavoring to hold a conversation with Avery and Lassiter, to make the two of them as comfortable as possible, and follow Techie Lawson's computer savviness. The photos were displayed, and Shawn flipped through them one at a time.

"Well," he began cheerfully, "I figured out why I kept getting the guts of pine stuck in my nose."

"Ew," grumbled Avery.

"Figuratively, Avery."

"He's like that," Lassiter said. "You get used to it. Or sometimes you don't get used to it and you end up doing this." He kicked Shawn's ankle.

"Ow! Lassie! Save the violence for someone who cares. Now I'm not going to tell you what I found until you apologize."

"No."

"Apologize."

"No," and injected it with a little Tim Curry spice.

"I'll tell Avery what kind of underwear you wear. In fact, I'll send out an interoffice memo telling everyone. In fact, one better: I'll put out a BOLO for them."

"Fine," Lassiter capitulated, arching his eyes away and festering inside. The very roots of him burned. He wasn't sure Spencer wouldn't send out a BOLO for a missing pair of underpants. "I'm sorry I hit your ankle, Spencer. I do apologize."

Shawn hoisted his foot up on the next empty chair. "Kiss it and make it better."

Lassiter fanned fingertips across his brow. "I said I was sorry, now please—what did you find?"

Shawn settled, forgetting about the incident, and casually hoisted their attention to the shrubberies by the pool in several shots. "What do you notice about them? Other than they're ugly." He squinted. "And this one here sort of looks like Roberts Blossom if you squint and tilt your head a little. See, there's the scraggly beard."

But Lassiter noticed what Shawn had intended him to. Scraggly the shrubs were not, at least not on par to Mr. Blossom's facial hair. A current of electricity zipped through Carlton. "Why would a house that's been used as a stage have the shrubs trimmed?"

Shawn's typically carefree look rummaged to dig up something akin to admiration. "Well done, Lass. Well done, indeed. Why would it? It wouldn't. If Winfield Acquisitions owns this property—" He hustled a hand to grab the front of Lassiter's shirt, part of the tie, a few buttons. A harsh whisper wound directly to Carlton. "Don't. Leave him alone."

Shawn's grip was wrestled away, and Carlton begrudgingly ceased impaling Avery Tree with a baleful leer.

"I sense Avery is as worried as the rest of us," Shawn said simply. Avery seemed to evaporate, seated at the end of the table—not in a chair but on the table. Anyone in Avery's position would be worried, though there were no formal charges the police could pin on him. But with Chico Ramone on the lookout for him, Sandalwood missing… Shawn gave his head a shake, and stared at the passing picture slideshow again. He heard Lassiter commiserating with Avery, then asking if he'd eaten anything lately. Shawn was still poring over photographs when Carlton mentioned he was taking Tree for food. "I have some peanut butter crackers shoved away in your pen drawer, Lassie," Shawn told him. Carlton had halted under the lentil, surprised. "And probably a package of Sour Patch Kids. If any of those sound good to him, he's welcome to them."

"What's the story with—with the two of you?" Avery was brave enough to begin the inquiry, but faltered a little at the end, as they headed for the staircase.

"Story is this, Tree: He walked into my life and it hasn't been the same since. A lot of jokes, wasted time, pop-culture references that take me hours to look up on Wikipedia, and occasionally—just occasionally—some solved cases that I probably would've solved without him. Except maybe that one with the dinosaur. But that's the gist of it. That's the story."

"And you pretend to hate him for it. I see."

It was true, the pretend part. "I won't deny that now I've known him so long he makes everyone else seem a little unsalted."

"Yeah, I knew someone like that once. Couldn't stand to be around him. We hated each other. Total opposites. I wasn't nice to him, and he treated me like I didn't matter."

"Did you murder him?"

"No," chuckled Avery. "Even if I really wanted to wring his neck sometimes." He observed the main corridor of the SBPD, the golden glow off the woodwork, the bright blue of the tiles positively luminous, the long slants of sunlight across the floor. And people! People everywhere. He felt a little lonely, sighed, and remembered Detective Lassiter's question. "No, I didn't murder him. I kissed him. Best decision of my life." He didn't bother stating why, preferring to take a page of Shawn Spencer's Handbook for the Recently Mystic: Rule Number Eight: _Sometimes telling tells too much_.

Lassiter had a few minutes to digest the statement, weighing it on the scale of fiction or nonfiction, while Avery ate Shawn's peanut butter crackers and sipped a cup of hot cinnamon tea. The station buzzed in its evening activity, the same as it had all the years, almost multiple decades now, of Carlton's employment. But it had been zapped of comfort, filled with prickly brambles. Maybe the marriage of Guster and O'Hara was illuminating changes for him. A delayed reaction. Shawn had had trouble with the change immediately, but Lassiter had denied himself the chance. Maybe it wasn't so simple, in spite of O'Hara's empty desk, and Shawn's despondent shuffle.

The appearance of three suited men caused a different change. Lassiter pitied Avery a little, seeing he had stopped eating, spying on the big broad shoulders and sour faces of L.A. vice detectives.

"You ready for this? They won't be a walk in the park like we were."

Avery took a moment to consider. "Yeah. I can handle it. I have to. There's not another option, is there, Detective?"

For the first time, probably ever, Carlton wished Shawn was present. Shawn's witticism wove wonders. He'd have Avery smiling at life's whimsies in mere seconds. Lassiter had nothing, just a bag of old and slightly hardened Sour Patch Kids that Shawn had stuck there early in the summer. Across the package in a fat black permanent marker, a warning was written: _PROPERTY OF SHAWN SPENCER. DO NOT EAT. THAT MEANS YOU, LASSIE. (Well, OK, you can have some. But __just__ you.)_

Lassiter recklessly tossed on his suit coat, sparing an imaginative thought to what his life really would've been like if Shawn had never materialized. A little unsalted, as he'd told Tree, like low-sodium soup crackers. Just some floury filler and no taste. He popped a stale Sour Patch Kid in his mouth, and gluttonously preferred the acerbic tang.

.


	7. Part the Seventh

Part the Seventh

-x-

Shawn had known, since he and Lassiter had gone through the fake Tree house, that something was seismically off about this case. While it pleased him on a sub-level to know it wasn't just his exhaustion that had thrown serious spikes into his often smooth psychic system, he still wanted to catch bad guys. But even at 4 PM, with his belly happily sated by lunch, and his heart content with Carlton's smiles, Shawn was hardly in the mood to exhibit mighty psychic vibes by over-accentuated hand gestures and hollers. Yet one had a duty to perform—and it was rather nice to think Detective Fielding would finally have a front-row seat to the Shawn Spencer Show.

As soon as Vick, Fielding and Lassiter arrived in the observation room Shawn let out a wavy, low groan. Vick, at first, thought he was ill, influenced by Henry's worry over Shawn's health, and Lassiter having dropped a few hints that "Spencer isn't feeling very good," to borrow the detective's own vague phrase.

But then Shawn was always giving his audience a little more to consider, taking them from one belief to another. It was what he did. So when he started letting his fingertips creep across his face, and made a show of doing the same to Lassiter, Vick evinced not the slightest shock. She nearly laughed at the look on Lassiter's face as Shawn twiddled his fingers against a relaxed bottom lip—until Lassiter caught Shawn's wrist and gave a most effective glare. Shawn then lolled around, using his arms to his advantage.

"Chief," Shawn had a way of saying it that was both confident and encouraging, "I'm sensing something."

Lassiter couldn't help his glance towards Fielding. For someone who'd heard about Spencer's "antics" before but hadn't witnessed them closely, Fielding was watchful, skeptical, judgmental. Lassiter promised he'd remain neutral regarding Shawn's reveal. Though he noted that Vick's eyebrows lofted in anticipation.

But because Gus was absent, because he'd been through the wringer himself too much lately, because something in the case was slipping out of their grasp—though he didn't know what it was—Shawn couldn't go on a pop-culture binge. He thought about it. He thought about mentioning David Bowie in _Labyrinth_, Cher in _Mask_—or maybe just going the really imprecise route by naming Peter Bogdanovich films until someone landed on _Mask_… He just couldn't do it. He slumped back in a faux faint, Lassiter's instincts activating to catch Shawn, push him up—gently—again.

"I'm sensing shadows and—games." Games. That was a new one. What was the game? He could read the ignorance on Vick's face as much as he felt it in his gut. "It's possible that Avery Tree really is Avery Tree."

"Mr. Spencer, we can't find any solid evidence that an Avery Tree existed prior to his murder the other night—"

"That wasn't Avery Tree." Shawn emphatically pointed to the solitary individual sitting in Interrogation Room B. "That man in there with the Tyrone Power good looks and lean muscle tone _is_ Avery Tree!"

Fielding didn't like to listen to their sanctioned psychic spouting off defense. "Who may have killed someone."

"Oh, please, junior," Shawn said, grimacing as though Fielding repulsed, "do you honestly think he'd show up at my office if he was guilty?"

"He would if he was trying to deflect," retorted Fielding. "You've had your chance with him, Spencer, and now it's time to let us do our job."

"Wow," Shawn was full of placidity and a little affection, "you sounded just like Detective Lassiter." He threw his hand over his heart and looked to Carlton and Karen. "This is a proud, proud moment for the SBPD. Let us give a moment of silence." He bowed his head.

"Now who's deflecting?" grumbled Fielding, opening the door and prepared to stomp out—except the desk sergeant and an unknown civilian stood in his way.

Shawn caught several clues of the civilian in the two seconds of silence preceding the desk sergeant's call to the chief. Bruises on the right wrist, a small scrape on his neck already scabbed over, good clothes though a little wrinkled, and suede shoes dark around the sole where he'd walked across damp grass recently.

"Uh, Chief," the desk sergeant said, "this is, um," he gestured to the gentleman, but found he was too disbelieving to give the name.

Shawn had to get one on them. It was the only proper thing to do. "Jonathan Sandalwood."

"Yes," said the addressed, then had a spurt of bashfulness as they examined him. A momentary relief came when the desk sergeant shuffled out and Detective Fielding tightly crossed his arms. "I came as soon as I could—as soon as I could get—" He had to pause to collect his thoughts, rub his temple. Into the interior of Interrogation Room B, he let his gaze wander and stay. Shawn subtly elbowed Lassiter.

"Except that your name isn't really Jonathan Sandalwood," Shawn said. Again, it had to be true. The back of his throat did that tingly thing that told him he was on the right track. "None of the people who work for Chico Ramone use their real names. Isn't that right?"

"Yeah, it's true. He doesn't want— But I'm not—" He gulped and scrutinized Shawn. "Sorry, who are you?"

"Shawn Spencer, head psychic for the SBPD. Is that Avery Tree?"

Jonathan didn't speak, his eyes wary. Fielding, who'd been simmering too long, was about to explode, but Vick stepped forward.

"Think long and hard about your answer, Mr. Sandalwood—or whatever your name is. We've got a lot riding on this case. We could use help catching Chico Ramone."

Jay didn't think it was possible that anyone—least of all the dinky Santa Barbara Police Department, their psychic aside, was capable of indicting Chico Ramone. But with a forlorn look at the lonely man at the table, Jay nodded.

"That's Avery Tree." He met the psychic's gaze. "The real Avery Tree. May I speak to him?"

"Sure," Shawn said, before Lassiter issued his own elbow. "Ow! Lassie, your elbows are just way too pointy and mean for that sort of jiving. Knock it off! All I said was sure! Like he's going to believe that I have authority over two detectives and the chief here."

"You can go see him," Vick said, curious about the whole thing, and they knew nothing said beyond the glass would be inaudible, "as soon as you tell us who you really are."

Sandalwood weighed his options. "As much as I want to talk to Avery—I thought he was dead until a few hours ago—when I realized he couldn't be—I can't just tell you who I am without— Well," the tenacity and assuredness he'd felt entering the station had suddenly disintegrated, and it was no longer important to prove his innocence, "it doesn't matter. Somewhere in your missing persons files from a couple years ago, there's probably and old one for Jason Laramie. I'm Jason Laramie. You can look it up while I talk to Avery."

While the chief escorted Jonathan Sandalwood, the unmasked Jason Laramie, into the interrogation room, Shawn zipped his memories through anything flagged with the Laramie surname. Where had he seen that before? Recently. With the case. At night. Somewhere leafy.

"You're not helping," Fielding managed to eke out of his stifled anger, pointing directly at Shawn, "and you need to get off this case!"

Shawn frowned, hanging on to a thread of doubt within. What if Fielding was right? And his dad? They both wanted him off the case. Occasionally, Lassiter had shown doubt, too. Though that behavior was hardly different for Carlton.

"Lassie."

"What?" He got the creeps whenever Shawn whispered his name like that.

"Laramie. I know that's connected to the murder somehow. I just can't think of how. We need to identify the guy in the pool. I have a feeling— Now what? What?"

Because Lassiter had elbowed him a second time, but Shawn followed his vacant line of sight to what had happened on the mirror's opposite side. In a police station, one might expect immediate murder, a stabbing, a shooting, a fight breaking out. For Avery and Jason, it was the furthest from mayhem. There they were in the middle of the room embracing, each just as eager to leave kisses as they were to never let go of one another again.

Shawn, dumbfounded and embarrassed, with an inconvenient gaze at Lassiter's indifferent profile, managed to supply an excuse.

"Okay, to be fair, Lassie, I totally didn't see this happening."

For Lassiter, what Avery Tree had told him earlier blossomed into indelible sense. Someone that he'd hated, someone that had treated him terribly, someone that he'd kissed just to prove a point. And Carlton knew something Shawn didn't know, unable to gloat over it, not even wanting to. "You didn't, huh? H'mm. Makes me wonder what else you never see coming."

Then he left, and Shawn, bristled, called weakly after him.

"It's so like you to pick now to be all vague and—and stuff! Lassie! Hey!"

The door clicked shut. After a silent dare, Shawn peeked cautiously through the two-way mirror. Avery and Jay were holding one another, swaying to some internal thrum of contentment. As the door opened to admit Vick and Fielding, they drifted apart, but their hands went into one another's quite naturally—with the familiarity of years. Vick coughed and drew their attention to the sign, NO TOUCHING, stenciled on the wall. The hand-holding ceased. Shawn's frowned deepened.

"This just got a whole lot weirder."

He dismantled the instinct to telephone Gus, aware that neither Gus nor Jules really knew the details of the case. He chose to saunter into the interrogation room just behind two of the suits from Los Angeles, and just as Vick unwound from a file a picture of the corpse from the pool.

"Mr—Laramie," Vick adapted to his real name, hoping to have it verified soon, "do you know this man?"

The conclusion of the case rested on whether or not Jason Laramie could identify that body in the photo. Shawn was on the lookout for tells suggesting that the next sentence to pass Jason's mouth would be a lie.

Then Jason sighed, leaned back in the chair, and rotated the photograph back to the chief.

"Maxwell Sidney Van Weyl."

The suits from the big city shifted uncomfortably, looked at one another dubiously. The Chief said nothing, but her lips cramped together. Shawn saw such posturing as signs that suppositions outside his hearing had arisen about the identity of the dead man. Why hadn't they known? Why hadn't they figured it out beforehand? The hairs on Shawn's arms went on end, a sick feeling that everyone was lying, everyone was too ready to defend. If Chico Ramone was this powerful—how powerful was Van Weyl or the Laramies?

Fielding speedily jotted down the name. Jason raised his head and winced at Fielding as though never paying him due notice before.

"Van Weyl. W-e-y-l. Though it won't matter if you get it wrong. You can't."

"You know him," Shawn surmised. Locks began to break apart. Water and oil started to mix. A case held such a hopeful sensation just during that brief minute it started to congeal. "Your family does."

"Yeah," Jason said breathlessly. He was pale, nervous, unsure how he could get out of letting them think he'd murdered Max. "One of my father's—" the madness of it made him chortle faintly, "my father's lawyers. Handled the real estate portion of things. Dad'll be real damn sorry to hear he's been killed. Maybe."

Lawyers. Real estate. Oh, now the locks were undone—and now he almost had it. "Chief! I gotta go! Fielding, behave." Before he was entirely out of the room, Shawn slipped back and, gesticulating wildly, indicated the two seated men. "They didn't do it. Don't arrest them, Chief—and don't let Fielding talk you into it."

Back upstairs, the station purred in its usual evening din. Shawn had a moment's panic seeing Lassiter's desk empty, but warmed in relief spotting him at the coffee buffet.

"Lass! Can you make that to go?"

"Yes. I can. But I'm not going to. I'm not going anywhere."

"You are so when I tell you it's got something to do with Laramie."

Lassiter lifted a brow, his form of sneering.

"Break in the case!" God, it was hard to get the words out when he was in a rush to make Lassiter understand. "I am so close! So close to— Signs, Lassie, signs, everywhere signs! Clogging up the scenery and breaking my mind! Do this! Don't do that! But—" He grabbed Lassiter's coffee mug, set it down, then tugged at Lassiter's tie. "Let's do this! I can explain on the way. Come on!"

Complete surrender wasn't immediate, and Carlton did enjoy those times when Shawn was excited, practically begging—helplessly begging to be believed just enough to be followed into anything. And he liked it—actually liked it—when Shawn tugged at his tie. The slightest brush of Shawn's fingers against his abdomen was about the sexiest thing that Lassiter had in his immediate world, other than some memories that were tarnished then by self-hate and guilt.

"You always say you'll explain on the way," he said savagely through his teeth, "but that never seems to happen."

Any other time, under any other vow but the one he'd made for himself, Shawn knew it would've been a time to insert a flirtation. Where else would he explain things? In the dark? Over dinner? In bed? He was open to suggestions. "Carlton! Do you really want to fill out all the paper work that comes if the wrong man is accused and then let go? Of course you don't. No one does, not even you, Mr. Addicted To Paper Cuts. And don't you want to show off in front of those big downtown vice cops? Come on, man-up! Let's ride!"

He tapped Carlton's shoulder, bounced back and forth on the tips of his toes like a boxer ready in the ring. Carlton continued to stare. Once he sipped his coffee, but stared nonetheless. Then, inexplicably, Shawn's liveliness quit. He rubbed his stomach and felt that tattling tremble in his quadriceps.

"Hold that—that thought a moment. It seems I have a previous appointment with the Vomit Monster. But, after—you, me—super chase to catch a killer."

Carlton found him hunched on the floor before a toilet in the men's room a minute later. Shawn moaned while taking the offered paper towel, slightly dampened, that Carlton brought. The moan was only ninety percent show, Category 2—possibly two and a half.

"Well," Shawn tried to sound chipper, "this is certainly a new experience for me. The highlight of my illustrious career as the SBPD's psychic: puking my guts out in a public location." And, far more weakly, "Hooray."

Carlton helped Shawn to his feet, such as they were. He wobbled, he titled, he groaned again and feebly touched his forehead. Cold water from the tap soothed.

"Whoever said that orange juice is good when you're sick clearly didn't have sinus infections in mind. Just—throwing that out there. My weekly Public Service Announcement."

"I can take you home." He beheld the sharp sting of Shawn's stubbornness. "Vice is here now, and, from what I've heard, the FBI will be called in."

"I know how you fanboy those government employees. The FBI has a file on Chico Ramone."

"And Joseph Peter Laramie."

Shawn looked up, still swishing water around in his mouth. He and Lassiter had known one another so long that he didn't need to voice the question, only _think_ it.

"Jason's father."

Shawn answered the flick of Carlton's fingers, enjoyed the briefness of a tender hand grazing across his back. There was a quick stop in Chief Vick's office, with Karen just settling back into her seat, already scanning a file. She regarded the head detective rather suspiciously, but said nothing until he'd made his statement.

"I have to take Shawn home. He had a fun moment in the bathroom with some orange juice that wouldn't stay down. Don't let the guys from vice do anything exciting without me."

"Of course I won't tell them that."

He smiled awkwardly. "Don't blame me for trying."

"The FBI won't be in until tomorrow. You know how they tend to enjoy nine-to-five days. I'm assigning McNab and Dobson to protect Mr. Tree and Mr. Laramie at a hotel." She tilted to the left for the purpose of witnessing Shawn leaning against the doorway. His head was stuck to it, his long arms lank at his sides. He'd completed a marvelous collection of spasmodic acts through the years, some that were vastly annoying to her, a price to pay for his ability to solve crimes. And she couldn't believe it, but she was feeling sorry for him. She glazed Lassiter in a rigid look. "Get him out of here, Detective, before he throws up on something important. And don't worry about coming back tonight. No, really," she insisted, his mouth opening to retort, "I mean it."

Lassiter tidied up his desk, his evening OCD, said goodnight to a few people, and met Shawn at the front doors. Misters Tree and Laramie had already departed, along with three officers and, as Shawn put it to Lassiter, "those cantankerous snakes from L.A." Again, that emotional whirlpool engulfed Shawn, having no connection to his earlier escapade, but that horrid, unaccountable sensation that this case went far and beyond their capabilities.

"Back to your laundry basket, Spencer, or my house?"

"What a fine offer," and it was—it was big of Carlton to offer. But judging by the smug expression, Lassiter knew it'd been big of him. Shawn squirmed in the seat and glared out the window. He didn't want Lassiter's kindness in the form of snowstorms and ice picks. He wanted it in the form of warm summer breezes and pretty pastel sunsets. The way it had appeared minutes ago in the bathroom, or that morning in the kitchen, which was beginning to hold all the aspects of a very detailed delusion.

"I choose D: None of the above. Take me to the Psych office."

"You should be in bed."

Oh, damn—that was too easy. Shawn gave a shake of his head, deploring every retort zipping through his mind. "Yes, I probably should be, Carlton, but sometimes the psychic vibes swarming through my body will not let me rest. Take me," he lowered his voice, realizing he'd been yelling, or near it, reverberating dangerously through all the crap in his head, "to the office, please."

"It doesn't even have a couch you can lie down on. I say no."

"I can put the two chairs together—"

"No."

"I can make a blanket fort."

"Tempting, but no."

"Just let me do what I want, will you? I'll throw everything off Gus's desk and sleep on that."

"What? You would not."

"Would too! A pool table was good enough for Brendan Fraser's character in _Still Breathing_. And he was a psychic—of a sort."

"Brendan Fraser's a psychic?"

"No, Lassie, no! His character dreamed about— You know what? I'm not having this conversation right now. We can discuss independent romantic comedies with a male perspective some other night. Just take me to the office. I want to do some universe vibration exercises."

The office was cold, damp, and Shawn knew as soon as he walked through the door (again unlocked—Gus was going to kill him) that he didn't really want to be there. He wanted to be curled up on Lassiter's sofa, under a blanket, watching reruns of _The Muppet Show_. But that wouldn't exactly help him sort the case. Lassiter insisted on turning up the heat and making sure Shawn had something other than soda and tropical fruit juice to drink. Shawn found a blanket in the footrest cube, wrapped it over him, and sat at his desk, his eyes closed until Lassiter was in front of him.

"Call me when you want to go home." He started walking towards the door. "And don't stay up all night." The door opened, and he was a little upset that Shawn hadn't responded. He had no other choice but to say, "If you don't call by eleven, I'm coming to get you."

Shawn smiled, but got up as the door closed, and turned off the heat. He wasn't sure they had enough in the Psych account to pay extra on their bills next month. The interest rate on their small business loan was erratic enough as it was… He didn't want to think about money, how tired he was, if maybe this experience of private investigating was becoming a burden. They hadn't exactly budgeted for extra bills and economy slumps.

The lamp on his desk provided some heat, as did the computer. He put on some music and shifted through online archives about Joseph Peter Laramie. From what Shawn perused, JP—as the diminutive was in Shawn's head—and his brother ran a successful cluster of companies branched out from their great-grandfather's tiny credit union founded over eighty years before. He did find a few things about Jason, chiefly gossip columns about his doings in New York, from the hippest clubs and restaurant openings, to fashion shows, a stint on a reality program, and small speaking parts in some movies—he was an "It Boy." He seemed to drop out of the spotlight sometime last spring, and the paparazzi failed to instigate a hunt, after his cousin—not JP Laramie—had filed a missing persons report almost three years ago. Shawn intended to stay awake long enough to collect conjecture about Jason Laramie, but on the verge of realizing Jason must've ditched his Perfect New York World for imperfect but nonetheless dazzling Avery Tree, Shawn lost his battle against sleep.

A jingling woke him. He snorted, remembering that Carlton was coming to get him at eleven. Full night was in bloom, with the sodium vapor lights along the oceanfront shimmery and faint, indicating light mist. He put the laptop to sleep, sang along with the album on constant repeat—and heard footsteps too unlike Carlton's.

Shawn froze.

Who—at 10:45 PM—_who_—?

Shawn silently slipped a pool noodle from a hamper of outdoor toys, and armed himself with it, baseball-bat style. He cocked his head, listening for the steps. At the front desk. Paper—looking at the pile of junk mail. Steps again. Closer—

On the point of leaping to the assailant, he screamed. The unknown guest whipped up his matching falsetto cry, spun around, found the light switch.

"Shawn, put that down before you hurt somebody. Like me. Or," he noticed he'd been terrified of a foamy pink pool noodle, "or a fruit fly."

Shawn reacted uncharacteristically. A dubious gaze roved from Gus's shoes to the top of his rain-speckled mug. "Gus?"

Gus shimmied the limp pool noodle from Shawn and left it in the hamper. "What's wrong with you? A guy breaks into your apartment, and you're sitting in the dark, at this time of night, in the unlocked Psych office? Man, I knew it was the right thing to do, coming back, before you got yourself killed."

"Gus," Shawn cooed. He slipped Gus into a hug, patted the back of his perfect cocoa melon head. "I'd hug you longer, but you stink of airplane and Oreos. Where's Jules?"

"At home, getting some rest. The landing was kind of rough, and she got a little queasy."

"Yeah, there seems to be an epidemic of vomiting going around."

Gus didn't ask for an explanation, instead racing to turn down the music. "What are you listening to? It's making my ears swell."

"Your ears are sweet as a baby's, Gus, like always. It's Detox Retox."

"Oh. Them again. I should've known. You listen to this on repeat so much even I know the lyrics, and I don't even like them."

"Please don't turn it off until 'Caroline' is done."

"It's Caro-_leen._ It's French."

"Gus, what? I'm pretty sure they're from DC."

"It's French, Shawn. That's what the _un, deux, trois _in the lyrics indicate."

"Oh, yeah, that does make more sense. Amazing. Well, _Meek_ and his _entourage _loosen my thoughts."

"Stop pretending like you know them. And I think he prefers Michael, not Mike, regardless of your fake French accent. And no, no you haven't heard it both ways, because you have never talked to them, never seen them live, and you just don't know. I'm calling you on this one."

"I'm still amazed that such a little mouth can get out so many words! Agh! If only I had that talent... That boy knows his elocution, mark my words. Oh," the front door admitted another, "there's my ride. Maybe I can send him to get you some ice cream. You want a popsicle or something?"

"I've just spent the last thirty hours at airports and in a tiny airplane seat, and you're offering me a popsicle? Hello, Lassiter."

"Guster!" Lassiter embraced Gus, using the more masculine version of a hug, the one-arm style and butterfly pats at a shoulder. "What a surprise."

"We were worried about Shawn."

"He threw up earlier," Carlton said jubilantly. "You missed it."

"Lassie, don't give away all my secrets." Shawn saw that Gus, otherwise unresponsive, frowned and ogled, trying to see if the sickness oozed through the exterior.

Lassiter hadn't finished demoralizing Shawn. The act was a labor of love, really. "But no one's shot at him yet today. That's promising. There's still time." He looked at his watch. "We have another hour and fourteen minutes. Where's O'Hara?" When Gus finished repeating what he'd said to Shawn, Carlton hummed. "There seems to be an epidemic going around."

Gus's eyes bobbed back and forth. Shawn. Lassiter. Shawn again. "The two of you are beginning to freak me out, and I've been through customs. _Twice_."

"Did you really come all the way back here, cut your honeymoon short, just for me?" Shawn asked, turning off the stereo and the dim light in the back.

"Mostly." But Gus ducked his head and admitted the rest. If he held it, Shawn would only squeeze him until all the bad seeds came out. "That—and the weather was bad. And there was a public transportation strike in Spain. We really didn't feel like taking chances."

"Yeah, shame to take chances when you're already in European Union territory and newly married. Seems like all the good chances are taken up by the time you get to that point." Shawn hurried into his coat, smirking after catching Carlton's grin. At least there was one among them who'd actually been married before. Well, _really_ married, with grownup problems and stuff.

"And Juliet might've gotten a little splurgy with our funds, and bought us a replica Degas statue."

"Degas—he's the one with the—carpenter. Built a maze. Had a kid made of wax."

"That's Daedalus."

"I thought that was where Luke Skywalker learned—"

"That's Dagobah."

"What's that show, with the high school—?"

"_That's_ Degrassi. No, Shawn, you're finished."

Shawn shut his mouth. It was grand having Gus back.

"Degas is famous for his ballet art," Lassiter said. "Used to do his work without his glasses on. He painted and sketched what he saw, not what was actually there."

"A bejeweled cornucopia of information," grumbled Shawn, doing a double-take of Lassiter closing some of the mini-blinds. "Lassie, why do you hate Trivial Pursuit so much? You could clean us out of those cute little pie pieces."

"Maybe I have a guilty conscience."

"Bah. Forget him, Gus. He studied Russian Literature. Jules spent all of the money you were going to use to bring me some Jelly Babies?"

"They're in Juliet's luggage, I think. It was too expensive to box up Sienna Miller for you."

"She hasn't been awesome since _Keen Eddie_ anyway."

"You know that's right. Am I taking you home? Are we talking about the case? I'm starving. I need something other than a bottle of generic cranberry juice and a two-year-old box of Junior Mints to fill me up. And," he glided a soft, congratulatory look over Shawn, "exactly two Oreos."

They stopped at an all-night diner, one of those little, heroic places that had defied the test of time by completely ignoring cultural changes, stuck somewhere in the 1950's. Shawn, eschewing the normal tier of junk food he'd eat if he were healthier, did the unprecedented thing by ordering hot tea—_decaf_ hot tea—raising the eyebrows of his companions. He simpered at the collective awe.

"It would've been funnier if they'd had Earl Grey. Then it would've been so Captain Picard of me. _Tea. Earl Grey. Hot_. But this is fine. Oh, look, a little lemon wedge!" He pinched the pruny lemon rind between his fingers for Lassie's benefit, sitting next to him in the turquoise vinyl booth. "Isn't it cute? Do you want it for you tall glass of sissily watered down tea, Carlton?"

"Anyway," Carlton purposefully angled his head to Guster, "the case is just about out of our hands now. The FBI's here. We're as good as finished—it seems."

"Heading for the pillory already, Lassiter? Somehow you don't seem very convinced," Gus appraised Shawn's expression, "for, you know, being you and everything. But your anger and aggression haven't changed."

"Was it supposed to?"

Shawn continued to build little paper shanties out of individually-wrapped tea bags. "He's annoyed because he actually likes Avery Tree and—and Mr. Laramie."

Carlton's lip flattened and he stabbed at soupy cole slaw with uncommon vigor. How did Shawn do that? Then again, there wasn't much to dislike about Avery Tree: quiet, soft-spoken, personable, brave in spite of everything, and kind brown eyes that whispered sad songs. "Mr. Tree just happens to remind me of someone I knew in college."

"Oh," Shawn adored it when Carlton referenced the black cesspool known as College Years, "was it the actress?"

"Uh," Carlton had to pause and remember how Shawn knew about her, "no."

"Wait, wait, wait. Laramie? What Laramie?" Gus detected a messy pile of undisclosed information. His fingertips tingled. "You don't mean—"

"Indeed I do, good Sir Gus. Mr. Jason Laramie, son of New York power mongrel Joseph Peter 'JP' Laramie."

"He was Juliet's favorite character on that reality show," mused Gus aloud, adding another layer of warm syrup to his waffle. "Thought it was the funniest thing when he had to take Mrs. Oglethorpe's poodle in for its lavender rinse."

"Two million hits on You Tube and counting, that clip," added Shawn. "Personally, my favorite was the karaoke. Don't let it ever be said that Jason Laramie can't pull off a good Joan Baez impersonation. Shirtless. In his boxers. I read that his legs are so beautiful that the karaoke stunt caused riots in parts of Hell's Kitchen."

Carlton nearly spit out whatever he was eating, but awkwardly swallowed instead. It slipped sideways, a bit of it going down the right pipe, while a piece of bread tickled his trachea. He coughed, sipped water, received pats on the back from Shawn, until well again.

"Lassie's allergic to attractive legs. It's why he hisses like a gander every time I walk around in my shorts."

Gus did a rigorous assessment of Lassiter. Anything was possible; it wouldn't do, after so many years, to doubt what Lassiter was allergic to. He chose not to pursue the subject for the sake of his appetite. "I didn't see that clip, Shawn, for obvious reasons. Juliet keeps threatening to show it to me. But all that was years ago. The show's not even on the air anymore, in any variation of cast. Juliet said he'd left the spotlight for some personal reason. How'd he get mixed up in this?"

"The dead man by the pool was one of his father's business lawyers," Shawn said, taking over while Lassie chewed. "Also, it seems that he was keen on running away when he met Avery. The two of them couldn't really do without one another." He looked up from architectural duty, simultaneously pressing his knee against Carlton's beneath the table. "Isn't that romantic? _Nnnng—OW!_" A diabolical finger speared his side, in the most sensitive spot beside the kidney. His poor kidney! All of his insides began to swirl around again, until he took a deep breath to satisfy the Vomit God. Meanwhile, Gus was waiting for an explanation about the unearthly wail, the Way Beyond Category 5 whine. Half the diners had a piqued interest as well. "Sorry—I'm sorry, everyone," he said a little louder, over "Beyond The Sea" crooned out from the jukebox. "Natural reaction when Bobby Darin plays. I can't help it."

Gus hefted his eyes to the heavens, mimicking Carlton's hidden sentiments. "So Jason Laramie and Avery Tree are together?"

"Yes," Lassiter said, brightening into a false but stable grin. "Isn't it a wonderful and wacky world, after all?"

"And a small one, too," Shawn said, seemingly unrelated to the topic. "No, I mean that. Literally. Tree's a runaway, as he told me. Typical story. Bullied in school for being different. Embarrassed dad. Hassled mother. You know the kind. As luck would have it, Avery had talent and brains and a robust sense of jazz rhythm. A real Fred Astaire type of fellow, with better hair."

"And taller," added Carlton.

After a thought and a nod, agreeing with Carlton, Shawn went on. "Well, Avery's talents led to theater gigs, which led to the nightclub act, which led to him knowing Chico Ramone rather well. And after that, I don't know, it gets kind of blurry to me. Somehow, Laramie knows Ramone, or—or Ramone knows Laramie. Something about real estate—and I can't—I can't see beyond that. The voices are too muffled. Everyone behind the veil is very serious. And fierce. I can't talk to them when they're angry like that."

The long day of cold weather, the visit to the Land of Puke, the return of Gus and Jules… Shawn's mind limped toward the finish line. He wasn't as young as he used to be: vomiting took a lot out of a man, so did all this stress and strain and the Single Life. Ebbing into the misty waters of uncertainty, also known as Hell, Shawn palmed his forehead, and felt the soft, welcome fingertips of Lassie creep comfortably across the edge of his knee. He straightened a little, feeling the force of Carlton's belief in him.

It wasn't so surprising that Carlton dropped the twenty-five dollars to pay the entire tab, including Gus's portion. Gus heaped thanks upon him that only the flip of Lassiter's hand managed to silence. And no surprise, either, that the three separated and Shawn naturally went with Carlton, and Gus naturally drifted alone to the Echo. Shawn, his head dumbly aching in one spot, his nose feeling swollen twice its normal size (which he thought ought to bring a High Wind Warning to the entire county and making him more self-conscious than he'd been in years), tried to twist things around in his mind to make them fit a certain way.

"You need to stop thinking about it so much," Lassiter warned him, picking up on the way Shawn kept shifting his eyes about, the way his fingers twitched as if calculating figurants on the stage.

"I have all the pieces," cried Shawn, gesticulating wildly and articulating madly, "all the pieces, Lass, right there! And—they—won't—go!" Each word in a grunt emphasizing frustration. "Real estate. The nightclub. Ramone. Preacher. The cuts on the back of Van Weyl. And never mind about my proposed exposition earlier."

"Did you forget what you wanted to show me?"

"No, I didn't forget. My brain is a steel trap, Lass. But it got some perforations after talking to Gus. I need to sit on it a while, until things click. If they ever do. What is it that the cops always say? I don't know—I need my notebook. Where," Shawn had an unsettled feeling erupting in his belly, "where is my notebook?"

"On the dining room table where you left it yesterday," came the automatic response.

"Take me to your house, then."

"Doing that already, Spencer."

Shawn applied his vigilance to the passing scenery out the window: pole lights, yards, little stucco houses, the gas station all lit up on the next corner over, and— "Oh, right. Cheer up, Carlton."

"Was I depressed?"

"Well, you'll get Jules back as your partner. No more Detective Faulkner."

"Fielding."

"I knew it was some old writer that put me to sleep in high school."

"I'd thought of that already. Which is why I wasn't depressed. About O'Hara, I mean. Or you leaving your crap at my place."

"That wasn't on purpose. I'm typically absentminded."

"And contradictory. You just said a minute ago that you have a memory like a steel trap."

"Is that what I said? I didn't mean steel trap. I meant _lint_ trap. Big difference. It's all the psychic powers flowing through me."

"Along with sinus cavity bacteria."

"That, too. It's a smorgasbord of whopping good times in my head. You've no idea. They should make a television show out of it. No, never mind. They'd probably get, you know, Kirk Cameron to play you, and I'd cry. And in what world would Gus and Jules have ended up together? No, Hollywood would get it all wrong, wouldn't they? I'd probably end up with Juliet. Then where would you be, Lassie-face? I wonder, though—maybe Hollywood still gets things wrong, sticks too much to the archetypes."

"You're thinking about the guys from Los Angeles, from vice?"

"Maybe," Shawn responded, uncommonly laconic. He didn't want to bring up suspicions about someone's inability to blatantly name the body as Van Weyl. He massaged away the aches and pains, the voluminous bits of information floating there as well—not physically, of course, but still part of the pattern.

He unlocked the back door with the key, glad to be there, glad to be a few steps ahead of Lassiter. Into the kitchen to turn the light on over the sink, a little wave to Brad, a little wash of his hands to get rid of any extra germs that might be there, and nearly bumping into an arriving Carlton on his way to the dining room. His notebook was on the table, its plain cover, dog-eared at the corners, with infantile sketches on it, was conspicuous and vulnerable. Shawn made a lunge for it, moving on to cradle himself in the corner of the squishy couch.

"I suppose the baseball game's over," Shawn said conversationally. He worked his shoe off with a toe: it landed beside the other under the arch of his legs. Bleary in the side of his sight, Lassiter was taking off his jacket to leave it on the back of the armchair. Shawn rushed through notebook pages. _No, no, oh that's a nice doodle, I forgot I drew that, no, no…_ He found his disgorged postulations, the ones written in the eucalyptus-scented bath, and the whole half-hour of excitement replayed again. He bobbed lightly as Lassiter sat on the other cushion. Words, words, words—where was that screwy bit of info that he'd written down? It had probably seemed stupid at the time, unimportant. In all the years of solving crimes, he hadn't learned yet that it was the Stupid Things that finished the case. Why hadn't he learned that? What was wrong with him?

He looked at the television, just coming into colors and light.

"I recorded it," Lassiter said. He went through the DVR guide, not once needing to ask for help, and found the baseball game, Reds versus Padres, the "rubber game" of the series. Soon enough it began: announcers, players on the field, Reds in their ugly away uniforms, Padres in their fake fatigues. Lassiter, loosening his tie, wrenched out an arm to turn on the table lamp. "Light might help you find what you're looking for."

"No, I found it. My notes from the day you and the National Guard broke into the house and scared a poor, naked me in the bath."

"Sorry about that."

"Don't mention it. I am glad I sprang to get the extra large bath towels. I'll say that much."

"What's in your notes?"

"Reasons why people murder. Motives. I can't figure this out." Shawn, notebook on his knees, knees connected to calves, connected to feet propped on the end of the coffee table. His head relaxed back. The flat ceiling reflected blues and whites from the television, blurred and fabulous, like snow through a frosty pane of glass. "Do you suppose it's money?"

"Probably. Money and drugs. I think you should stop thinking about it."

"Hypocrite. You have twenty-four hour Cop Brain. You think about cases all the time."

"Not," Carlton faltered for a moment, "not all the time."

"You mean other than those two seconds a couple of days ago when you almost kissed me?"

Shawn thought Lassiter was going to hit him, or storm out of the room, or maybe kiss him just to put an end to it. In fact, Carlton made a point of being unaffected. Shawn and he stared at one another, then the briefness snapped. Carlton found that if he didn't smile, acknowledge the touché from Shawn, the situation would've spiraled.

Disgusted with the lack of verbal rejoinder from Carlton, Shawn messily, hastily folded up the notebook and tossed it on the floor with his stinky sneakers. "You're right. I can't think about this any more. I start to worry that—I know we're not going to solve this case. But I want to know what happened to Van Weyl. If we can't get to Ramone, I don't care, but I want to know what happened to Van Weyl. I sense that he was very distressed about something when he died, and not just the tightness of his Speedo. You can't tell me the FBI cares what happened to him."

"They don't. They want to gather more evidence against Ramone. Ramone didn't kill Van Weyl."

"And they don't want to know why Summer Preacher kept saying it was Avery Tree who'd died. She would've known it wasn't him."

"Are you sure about that?"

"I'm not even sure which way's up right now."

"Maybe," Carlton drew the word out to help him untangle what he wanted to say, "maybe she didn't know any better. It's too late to ask her."

"I wonder what's going to happen to the show at the Tanglevine Club now that Avery can't be in it? Suppose they're going to have open auditions? If they are, should I play it dangerously and sing Sondheim, or play it safe and sing something from the Berlin repertoire? Where you going? Don't you ever sit down two minutes together?"

Lassiter threw him a harsh look across his shoulder, otherwise adding nothing to the spar. The light went on the kitchen. Water ran out of the tap, splashed, a cupboard creaked open and bumped closed. Then the microwave, a light on in the hallway, the linen closet door opening, closing. A beautiful ballet of noise that Shawn secretly loved: home, life, a person around. The Padres retired the side without a hit by the time Lassiter came back. He was glad to see Shawn had stretched out to take up the majority of the sofa. It allowed him to thwack a wet, hot washcloth onto Shawn's forehead without a protest. He asked Shawn to scoot down, and slid into the empty place. A change of position, a switch of smells wafting up from clothes and cushions, and Shawn lay on his back, his head pillowed in Carlton's lap. A hot cloth on his forehead, over the ache in his eyes, and a chenille throw blanket placed over him. He listened to commercials, Lassiter's breathing, his own, for the span of three minutes.

"You're not going to take me back to my laundry cube tonight, are you?"

"No," Lassiter said, deigning to sip the glass of water he'd brought for Shawn. "You see, I have this psychic sense of my own."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, tough guy."

"What's it say?"

"You wear too many blue boxers."

Shawn's laughter was feeble, tired, but when he looked up at Lassiter, his eyes were kind and soft. "Funny."

"It also says, and perhaps more to the point, that you're thinking of sneaking out of the house again this morning, around six or so, and wherever you want to go I want to go, too." He pointed to the television, then used the same finger to rub a spot on his chin thoughtfully. "And that the Reds are not going to come back in the top of the eighth and win this game."

Shawn shut his eyes, nestled in, and had only one boring sentence to pass along, the maxim of all psychics, real or imaginary: "I guess we'll see."

-x-

Juliet had just drifted into a doze. Her dozes were like waxworks of sounds and images: recognizable things unbelievably realistic, never within grasp. Dull conversation from the tinny television speakers draped over replays of the day: airport chatter, the decision to go home, comforting one another when it came to having doubts somewhere over the Atlantic. Then—a noise. A solid click. A metallic ding of Gus dropping his keys in the dish near the front door. Footsteps. That one creak in the floorboard in front of the bathroom. She wanted to wake up to greet him, be coherent enough to know what he was talking about, but every time she thought her body would obey her, it continued to be a limp, sad little thing. How many time zones had she crossed? A body could really only take so much.

"Are you asleep?"

"Phantom sleep," she said. Finally, a hand obeyed to wipe away the beginning puddle of drool outside her lip. Gus moved stealthily around the bedroom, then there was his weight on the other side of the bed, shoes thudding on floor and carpet. She was thankful he'd agreed to settle into her place. It was nicer. Worth more on the market, Gus had said, more than likely the deciding factor and not, by any means, the wide open floor plan that, to newlyweds, seemed a little _too_ open. It was like living in a fishbowl at first. "How did it go? Did you see Shawn? Do you need something to eat?"

"No," he waved a hand frantically. As fond of her as he was, Juliet's cooking terrified him. "We stopped at the diner. Shawn's sick."

"Sick?"

"I don't just mean mentally."

"I was going to say…"

"Sinus infection. I told him to go the doctor tomorrow. I think if he throws up again he might."

"He threw up? Must be going around." Juliet, awake then, situated herself behind Gus and started unbuttoning his shirt. He wrestled with his socks, showing off his cute little toes. "You don't seem as tense as you usually are after Shawn's played your brain like a corn-feed stuffed footbag."

"What?" Then, she was suddenly understood, perhaps in the sympathetic half-smile. He stopped her hand with his, sighing, adding to the drama using a shake of his head. "This case is weird. Maybe it was a good idea we came back early. Shawn looked—he sounded—"

"I wouldn't worry about it," Juliet said to free him from the struggle. "If he doesn't feel well, then he doesn't feel well. Or do you mean it's—not that?" He turned around, and she saw consternation and doubt scribbled madly all over his face.

"I've seen him look like that before."

"And? What?"

"It usually foretells a drastic action."

"Maybe he'll go skydiving. Or kiss Carlton." She gasped and grinned. "Would he kiss Carlton? He could sure use it!"

"Who? Shawn or Lassiter?"

"Oh, pick one, Gus."

"You're right about that. But I've seen Shawn get worn out like that before, and, I'm telling you, it's not good."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because the last time," Gus grabbed her hands and fidgeted with them, "he bolted, and I didn't see him for six months."

"Oh." Juliet sat, legs beneath her, pausing to find the most optimistic reply. "That was a long time ago, wasn't it? Maybe he's matured? Or," at Gus's raising eyebrow, Juliet amended her query, "or maybe he has another reason to stay now? Well, I'm sure it can't mean—that he wouldn't—"

But wouldn't he? With his two best friends hitched up, in a nice, comfortable house, and him in that strange tin box that sometimes stank of moist towelettes and d-CON, his whole life was shifting, just after he'd gotten used to things being the same… Why wouldn't he?

"We'll get up early and go to the station," Juliet said in her frankest, sharpest tone. Gus had learned that she etched ideas into stone with that voice. Nothing could crack it. "I want to get on this case. Now, you get your puppy pajamas on, Gus, and tell me what they told you."

"Fine, but I'll get the exciting part out of the way first. You'll never guess who's shown up in this case."

"Craig Anderson."

"No."

"Johnny Bench."

"No."

"Joe Thornton."

"Why would Joe Thornton—? You know what, sweetie, never mind. And you think about sports way too much. Remind me to get you a subscription to a fashion magazine or something. Would you quit playing PTI and let me talk?"

"Wait! Is it—"

"Jason Laramie."

She went still and silent and thoughtful. Was he kidding? But Gus didn't often joke; he never seemed eager to sally humor. "Jason… Laramie? From _What's My Role: New York_?"

"They just found out earlier today. We were flying over Boston, probably, when Laramie came into the station. And, get this, Jules: He and Avery Tree, the real one, are an item."

"_No!_"

She fell backward in a swoop: pillows, comforter, her pajamas, all went wild with wind for a second. Gus gawked at her animated state during the midnight hour. Her feet and fists kicked in uncontainable excitement.

"Oh, my gosh, Gus! Gus! What'd you tell me this for? I'm never, ever going to get to sleep tonight! Do you think Carlton's still up? Can I call him? I want to find out about this case! Where's my phone? Gus! Where's my—"

"Probably in your handbag. By the door. Where it always is."

"Of course it is! I love you! You're so smart!" She darted from the room, a streak of blue and white and wheat-colored hair. She skipped down the hall, giving repetitive, gleeful hurrahs of "I married a smart man! I married a smart man!"

Admiration for Juliet mutated into an anticipation that wandered rudely up and down his spine. He was eager to think something, do anything, to override the residue of suspicion regarding Shawn, that Shawn was getting bored of treading down Ye Olde Psych Avenue. If Shawn didn't solve this case, at least part of it, that might be the end of the adventure.

Juliet's voice, high-pitched as she talked to Carlton—or Shawn, for all Gus knew, answering Carlton's phone—acted as a sieve for Gus's tributary of unwanted misgivings.

"Well, here we go," he said aloud to try comforting himself. It didn't really work.

From across the room, his phone blurted, the screen lit up the ceiling above the dresser. A text message that, as he read, brought a smirk to Gus's lips.

"D00d," Shawn had thumbed, "if ur coming over this l8 plz bring Trivial Pursuit!1 :D :D"

.

.


	8. Part the Eighth

Part the Eighth

-x-

Twenty minutes after the occupation of Shawn's thumbs texting Gus, a light knock rattled the back door. Carlton leapt up like a man on fire to answer it, inadvertently waking Shawn from his doze. The washcloth over his forehead had become a tepid, soggy thing that he quickly relegated to a coaster on the cocktail table. Juliet's voice never faltered in its cheeriness, in spite of the hour, and she hugged Carlton tightly, and he, to the heightened dubiety of Gus and Shawn, held her tightly a moment longer than she intended him to.

"Carlton," Juliet said from the stifled position near his armpit, "you're letting in the fog the longer you make me stand here."

Only it didn't sound half so clear, yet he understood her, briskly moved out of the way. Shawn, up by then, took care of the tricky rear door. He was the next intended victim of Juliet's good affection. She hesitated a second in front of him.

"I'm not contagious," he croaked. "Ignore any traces of blood you might see oozing its way profusely from my bellicose nasal passages." Her hug wasn't exactly the warm, gentle thing it should've been, but she was damp from the brief trips through the rain, and the fact that the heavy fog that had bombarded Santa Barbara for the last few nights had seeped its way into every available space. They might all turn to flesh-eating zombies by the time morning arrived, and said so out loud. "My bid's on Lassiter outliving everything. It'll be cockroaches, that creepy financial woman with the eyeliner, you know the one I mean—and Lassie here."

"I have no problems with that scenario," said Carlton, hanging Juliet's coat around a table chair. Removing their outer garments exposed the unusual clothes beneath. "The two of you are in your pajamas. Why?"

"You didn't expect us to change just to come and see you," Juliet said, then outsmarted herself, "or _did _you? We have way too much laundry to do, for one thing, and, for another, I thought we could have a slumber party. We stopped and got donuts." She lifted a bakery sack from a convenient store. "No coffee, though, because I remembered that Shawn bought you that really expensive coffee last year for Christmas, and I thought, if you still had some of that left—"

"It's seventeen dollars a pound," Carlton squeezed the words through his teeth. "And he used my credit card to buy it for me, then gave it to me as a present. The company wouldn't give me a full refund, so now I use it only on special occasions."

"Which means about as often as he has sex," was Shawn's rejoinder. He patted a stunned Carlton and took the sack from Juliet. Fried food, even lovely donuts on a soggy night, careered his stomach the wrong direction. It seemed his stomach was made up of Wrong Directions that day. He pushed the sack back into Juliet's hands. "It's Ethiopian single source coffee, I'll have you know. Picked by monkeys. The coffee beans, I mean. Or fruit pods. Or whatever. Did you bring it?" He muscled his way against weakening legs to reclaim his spot on the couch, but without the faintest hope that Carlton would take up the same close position. His question, thrown at Gus, resulted in a big box landing on his chest. Trivial Pursuit pieces rattled inside.

"Ugh, baseball," Juliet moaned, catching a glimpse of the television, too excited to settle her mind on one topic. "Isn't it time for pre-season football?"

"You've got a few more days. Calm down," Gus told her. Then, speaking to no one: "I'm thinking of giving her a tranquilizer."

"Gus, don't be Dr. Frankenstein to your new bride," warned Shawn, already plowing through trivia cards.

"She's counting down the hours, Shawn, using one of those online tickers. It's kind of disturbing. Hourly text message updates from the NFL website. The woman's obsessed."

"I can't sympathize with you, buddy. This is a woman who thought it was a good idea to form an elaborate prank involving a rubber sea monster costume and a fake alien fetus—and your best friends. Hey, Gus, who was the founder of Live Aid?"

Stumped for a moment, Gus hadn't a chance to give his guess: Lassiter swooped in on Shawn and took all the Trivial Pursuit paraphernalia away.

"Sly and quick as a cat," grumbled Shawn, lounging on his back. "How are you _not _a Leo, Lassie?"

"Maybe it's his Ascending," suggested Gus.

"No, that's Scorpio. You forget that I know all about all the rocks in space of everyone in this room. I think his True Node's in Leo, in his Tenth House—and retrograde. Like his Venus." He paraded through a series of disappointed and contemplative expressions. "If you're going to be so tragically useful tonight, Lassie, could you warm up the washcloth for me?"

"Oh, I can do that!" Juliet grabbed the washcloth before Carlton could get to it. "Let me do it, Carlton. You look a little tired. I've heard Shawn's a difficult patient."

"Depends on how sexy the nurse is." But Shawn winked at Juliet, hoping to get her interested in taking some of the slack from an overtaxed Lassie.

"Don't make it too hot," Lassiter warned as Juliet went into the kitchen. Rather glad to be relieved of the duty—he'd had enough of looking after Shawn for the night—he examined Gus. He'd only heard that Gus and Juliet had a fondness for silly pajamas, exemplified by the fire-truck sleeping attire Carlton had once seen on Gus, long before Juliet and Gus discovered another common trait: novelty sleepwear. "Are the two of you really going to stay overnight?"

"I don't know," Gus said, aware of how indecisive it sounded. At times, being in Lassiter's house, with Lassiter glaring like that, scared him to pieces. Despite the years of their acquaintanceship, and Carlton and Shawn's budding friendship—or whatever the heck it was—Gus continued to walk on eggshells around the head detective.

"Well," Lassiter suddenly found he wanted them to, and leaned into the sofa using a careless air, "then you can take over the watchtower, and see that Shawn doesn't do anything he's not supposed to."

"What's he talking about?" Gus urged from Shawn. "And who's pitching for the Reds?"

"Some kid they just brought up," Shawn grumbled. "You missed Bronson and his hair yesterday."

"That figures. I mean—never mind." Gus snapped to and angrily flicked his fingers on Shawn's head. "What are you going to do that you're not supposed to do?"

"Lassie has this stupid idea that I'm going to run off at six in the morning," Shawn drawled out, ending the sentence in a long, hydrous, staccato snort.

"That's very attractive," Carlton told him.

"You should see what I do with belly button lint," Shawn retorted. He formed his lips into a small pucker. "It'll be the sexiest thing you ever see."

Carlton was excessively displeased. "If you use that word _one more time_, Spencer—"

"You have used that word three times, Shawn, since we got here," Gus said. "Are you repressing sexual energy? For reasons that shall remain nameless? I think you need to spend a little time alone."

Shawn could feel himself blushing—blushing, him! How unbelievable it was that Gus had embarrassed him, and so easily. The Gus of Yesterday wouldn't have made any allusion along those lines. But Shawn reacted as though appalled. "Ew, Gus! Have you no propriety?"

"Not after midnight. And I ate diner food. On purpose. My wife drags me out of my comfortable house, out into this disgusting weather—to come see the two of you—because she's got this insane talent for solving cases." He grabbed the apricot-hued chenille throw and wound himself into it. Shawn thought he looked like a ripe peach with a brown stem sticking out the top. "And I think I feel a cold coming on. You don't know how disgusting that air is on airplanes."

"Yeah, but—" Shawn indicated the throw with a limp point and wave, "dude, I totally snotted all over that, and you might want to— Yeah, there we go." Gus, in revulsion, tossed the throw onto Shawn, who proceeded to tuck it around his arms and snuggle into it. He looked every inch pathetic and wan in time for Juliet's return.

"Poor Shawn." She laid the cloth upon his brow, mouth rolled upward in that sympathetic grimace given by females everywhere. "We won't keep you up all night, I promise. I just want to know something else about this case. Is Jason Laramie really involved?"

"She about tore through the door to get here when she found out," Gus exaggerated.

"He's been missing for two years, and then he just shows up! Anyone would be excited! I don't suppose you have any case information here." Juliet shelved her disappointment at Lassiter's blank face, much blanker than usual. It was funny, in the seconds the two of them looked at one another, Juliet decided he didn't look different—not older, not younger, not more relaxed, not excessively tense—but she had heard what had happened—the bathtub, the almost-kiss—and, if Shawn was to believed—well, Lassiter _should_ look different, if only because some especial lens had been forced to cover her eyes. Shawn she'd known about; Shawn found it too exhausting to hide everything about himself. But Lassiter—Carlton—she hadn't known; she'd been bogged down worrying about his aloneness, if he hated it, if he liked it, if—there were a thousand silent Ifs.

Carlton went to his briefcase to pilfer through the contents, Shawn already wailing in the background that not "a scrap of work had been put in that thing" since returning to the station after their lunch at Cafe Del Sol. Juliet, listening to the two of them throw shallow insults back and forth, found their bickering endearing. She latched to Carlton's arm in a moment, scanning his eyes so intently that he tried to get away.

"You know, Carlton," Juliet held still, unable to say anything but a quote she'd stumbled on during some trying times a few years before, "sometimes it happens that we meet our fate walking the road we took to avoid it."

"When I find out what that means, I might be able to thank you."

"It means you don't have to hate him anymore. You can even like him. It's _okay_. Shawn's a likable person. He really is. He's liked you even though you've never really liked him."

He hummed in his throat, assessing the statement, leveling his chin in a way that portended a verbal slap. Only the retaliation at the ready seemed too injurious for Juliet. She stood in front of him innocently, full of hope for him, and he was too grateful to have her returned to utter callous phrases he didn't mean. "Did you say you wanted me to make some coffee? I can do that. Do you want to ask Shawn about the case? He can fill you in."

The coffee _was_ expensive, but, nonetheless, he ground the appropriate amount of beans to make a whole pot, whether they drank all of it or left some to be ingloriously poured down the sink in the morning. It was a special occasion, in a way. Like one of those Days of Yore, when the four of them used to "socialize," a word quite out of Carlton's vocabulary. Wedding preparations hit a frenzy: their time together in the last month contracted, dwindling to cases, office hours, the infrequent luncheon or dinner. It occurred to him that his manner towards Shawn lately might have barely passed as civil. Now, however, Shawn and Gus and Juliet were crowded in his living room, of a house Shawn had picked out for him after an arduous search for just the right place. A slumber party for adults certainly warranted the use of seventeen-dollars-a-pound, single-source Ethiopian coffee, apparently hand-picked by the very best in trained simians.

He heard laughter caroling among them, no doubt after Shawn had magnified a tiny incident into humorous, elephantine proportions. Carlton listened at the threshold of hallway and living room, trying to decide where Shawn was in the story: between their investigation of "the Tree House" and their run over to Santa Ynez. Then, giving Shawn a breather, Gus added characteristics to Lady Olga that Shawn had purposefully disregarded. It happened that Carlton experienced one of those peaceful, warming moments of life that he'd only ever heard from besotted individuals and read about in fairy tales: His eyes met Shawn's across the room, and, in a split second, it was like being flattened under a steamy hot iron. The opposing magnets latched to their personalities had once rejected each other, and now were hurled together. Shawn, still pressing the warm cloth to an achy forehead, slipped through the conversing couple unnoticed, then, reaching Carlton, stopped his forward momentum and stood there stupidly.

"Did you want something?" Shawn thought he'd interpreted Lassiter's discomfort. "I can send them home if you think you don't really want them here. It is pretty cute, though, a slumber party. Leave it to Jules to think of a thing like that! I would've brought my fun pajama bottoms over if I'd known—" Shawn's sentence swept into a dead silence. Carlton had closed his eyes—right there—for no reason. His fingers, dried on his sweatshirt, reached for the underside of Carlton's tie, then for the free space between two shirt buttons. His fingers wiggled, and Carlton smiled. "Am I having a delusion, which, given the amount of medicine I've taken in the last twenty-four hours is a possibility, or are you actually happy right now? It's nice to see," he said to placate the twinge of apprehension as Carlton looked at him. "Nice to see you happy. Oh, don't worry, I won't tell anyone. I wouldn't even know who to tell first. Who'd believe it?"

It was unreasonable to ponder a big smooch between them right then, with Juliet and Gus twelve feet away, and something as ordinary going on in the kitchen as coffee brewing. Maybe Shawn was feeling a little delusional, since he thought, for a second, that Carlton wanted to. So, resigned to medicine-induced fantasy, Shawn tugged a final time at Lassiter's tie, dropped his hand, and changed the subject.

"Clean mugs in the cupboard or dishwasher?"

"Dishwasher."

A wholly unromantic and sobering word, dishwasher, after that moment of thunder and lightning and magnetism. He silently thanked Shawn for erasing the connection to an objectionable topic. Shawn, intending to move into the kitchen, perform the trifling duty of setting out mugs so that they might all have coffee—who didn't want coffee at twelve-thirty in the morning, really?—but that he didn't move an inch immediately. It was pleasant to bask in the emanations of Carlton's peacefulness. Helping fit him to the stance was Carlton's casual lean inward, auguring nothing but a long inhalation of the air stirred between them. Shawn reacted involuntarily, entertaining flashbacks of the kitchen incident and binding it with a vision of the future—that someday, someday, someday— He woke up, the dream unfinished, when Carlton started angling away. The tips of his fingers lightly depressed into Shawn's abdomen as he announced his intentions to take a shower, "a really, really cold one."

He reappeared eight minutes later, smelling like eucalyptus body wash and, from his freshly-laundered lounging clothes, peach Snuggle fabric softener. Shawn was finishing up the remainders of the story, but had time enough to hand over the mug of coffee he'd prepared for Lassie. "Let me sweeten that for you," he said, and proceeded to stick his finger in it. Lassiter fixed him in a dumb stare. "I'm just—I'm kidding, Lassie. I already sweetened it. With real sugar. I promise. Ask Jules. She watched me the entire time."

"I watched you to make sure you weren't going to fall over in a faint, Shawn. Really, take Gus's advice and go to the doctor tomorrow. I thought you'd spill all that good coffee. But," this to Carlton, "he didn't. It's not poisoned, Carlton. I swear. It's very good. I plan to have three more cups. Shawn, I must say you have excellent taste in coffee."

"I worked on a coffee plantation near Ponce, Puerto Rico for three weeks." Shawn leaned into the couch, waiting to be asked about the experience in Puerto Rico, or congratulated for having the panache to run off and do the things that people only ever think about. Odd, he thought, without meaning to deflect from his personal triumphs of the past. But it was odd that of all the world he'd seen and all the things he done, it took coming back home to encounter the greatest challenges: his relationship with his parents, his inability to maintain interest in a job for longer than a year, which could also be applied to persons with whom he was intimate. His years since the inception of Psych had been the happiest of his life. It made what he wanted to do very difficult. His insides smashed together in a burst of apprehension—and another unfamiliar feeling it'd take too much time to analyze, recreate and name, though it rhymed with _built_.

Thoughts such as those, and a plethora of others, kept Shawn awake until the gray clouds of night brightened into a despondent silver. The small hours elongated, the quartet discussing possibilities about the case, things Shawn hadn't considered, mostly inspired by the detective brains of Juliet and Carlton, united at last, and at their healthiest emotionally and intellectually. The separation had been good for them, as it seemed, while Shawn wrote out a few ideas, in shorthand, in the notebook. More and more frequently, case-talk was interlarded with a big dose of everyday banter, too. Shawn tried to grasp these moments to free them from the leash of work-work-work. But they continued to drink their coffee—Juliet making good on her promise to quaff three whole cups—and often one of them, sometimes more than one, got up to go to the bathroom. Then, as only exhaustion among the travel-weary and the work-weary could manage, they began to laugh madly at nothing. Juliet laughed hardest and longest (and had to run to the toilet lest she encounter early on-set incontinence), when Shawn and Carlton extended details of the visit with Lady Olga. But she sobered, later on, growing frank and tired and concerned about Jason Laramie, about Avery Tree.

She was the first to be visited by the fairies of sleep, curled up in the big arm chair, Gus's coat over her. Lassiter watched her during a moment alone, since Shawn had gathered mugs and snack plates for a trip to the kitchen, taking Gus with him. He could hear them whispering to one another, didn't wholly care what they said, though he heard sibilants that might (or might not) be connected to his name. His regard stayed on Juliet until Shawn came in. Shawn knew better than to ask for his thoughts—he wasn't ready to hear those sorts of things yet: marriage, failure, Victoria, anger—all very mature and somehow remote at four in the morning.

"I hope it agrees with her," Lassiter said, his smile stopping short of reaching his eyes. "Maybe if I hadn't tried so hard, if I'd just seen the road and not tried to build it. I don't know."

Responding with a prefabricated bromide was too far below Shawn. He'd thought of it, though. The damn thing was resting at his tongue, and he could've said it: We all make mistakes. But Shawn slipped out a sigh, back into the chenille throw, having much of the same view of dozing Juliet that Carlton had. A fair cheek pressed against fair fingers, and there shone her two rings: pure gold and clear diamonds.

"Funny, I never thought of it before," Shawn started, "but it seems more and more unlikely that I'll ever have the chance to slip a diamond on a woman's finger."

"You're not missing anything."

"Well, decent health benefits, maybe. And I can't seem to find the wee silver hat that goes with my Monopoly game. But, yeah, you're right: I'm not really missing anything. What do I need that I don't already have? Crazy life. You know, Lass, it's occurred to me just now that I'm getting old. But, wait, wait," Shawn raised his hand, winding back to something Carlton had just said, "what was that? About building the road?" But Shawn moved too quick for Lassiter to repeat. He inhaled, drew his notebook to his lap and flipped through it. What he wanted wasn't really there, not in pen and ink—just stuck hopelessly and invisibly in the empty spaces between.

Not five minutes later, Lassiter insisted that Gus wake Juliet and take her to the guest room. "The sheets are reasonably clean," Lassiter said. "Spencer was the last one to sleep on them."

"Not true, in fact," Shawn insisted. "I washed them before I went home." He smacked Carlton on the arm, his smile unfaltering towards Gus. "Clean as a clock and soft as Mr. Snuggle Bear himself. Do you need some help with your plunder, Captain G?"

Gus had whisked Juliet upward, she awake enough to throw arms around his neck, and do an adorable little foot move that just about made him drop her. "No, I got it. Thanks. We'll see you in the morning. And, Shawn?"

"Yeah, buddy?"

"Don't run out at six in the morning without telling someone first. All right?"

"You got it."

"Fine," Gus replied, smoothly applying a wise glance to Lassiter. "Then goodnight."

Lassiter and Shawn worked in silence to tidy the rest of the slumber-party mess. Cards from Trivial Pursuit were put away, and Shawn's tries to get Lassiter to play a game sometime were grunted at. The room resembled its former self by the time Shawn tumbled, belly-first, upon the sofa. He shook his head in the negative when Lassiter asked if he needed anything—more water, another dose of medicine, a package of saltines. Shawn's continuous head shakes eventuated in Carlton dismissing himself.

Shawn knew immediately it would be a sun-warmed morning hour before he got to sleep. He spent a good deal of time tossing around on the couch. It was a comfortable sofa. Hadn't he helped choose it specifically based on the comfort-to-price ratio? But on his back it felt like a lumpy mushroom, and on his side it felt like a sandpit; and even though he liked to lie on his abdomen every now and again, it wasn't how he fell asleep.

The case continued to annoy and beguile him, turn his mind into dark pits and stinky crevices of thought. Disgusted, Shawn tipped upward, turned on the lamp, and grabbed his notebook for about the fiftieth time that evening. The nib of his favorite pen glided in long swoops, short curves, delicate little strokes, until a face began to form. Something Juliet had mentioned, a conjunction between Avery and Summer Preacher, hadn't sat right with Shawn. Much like the orange juice…

Shawn had finished the drawing, had it sitting in the concave portion of his lap, but he was looking into the dim, faraway light of morning out the front window, slatted by blinds and speckled in one corner by a shrub. He heard a floorboard creak, a crunch of carpet under soft feet, and looked up to see Carlton standing there. Without preamble, Carlton stated his purpose for returning.

"You can sleep in my room and I'll sleep on the couch."

He was relieved that Shawn didn't need to know the reason for this kindness. Because it was an act quite noticeably composed entirely of kindness, and Shawn was a lot of things, probably not psychic, but decent at threading facts together. He was relieved, too, that Shawn thwarted all chances to protest. Silently, Shawn tossed the notebook to the table, the pen followed; he rose up, smiled at Lassiter, tickled him flirtatiously in the side, and left the living room.

Before turning off the light, Lassiter, curious rather than nosy, picked up the notebook. It was open to a sketch of a female face: Summer Preacher as they'd seen her the night of the murder. Why would Shawn—? But he caught himself in time, erased the query that would only engender unwanted kin, and flipped the lamp switch. He'd lightly dozed in his room, then woke to tingling Super Cop Senses that Shawn really might bolt off at dawn. But with him on the couch, Shawn got to rest in a comfortable bed—that had been an act of kindness. And Lassiter had the chance to intercept anyone leaving through the two doors in sight—that had been an act of devotion.

It couldn't have been but three minutes later that he opened his eyes, jerked at the sight of Shawn over him. Shawn reacted, too, sharing Carlton's surprise.

"I don't know how you like to be woken up in the morning," Shawn started lamely. He snorted, still some morning catarrh stuck in his facial crevices. "I thought of turning on the stereo and blasting Black Tide—they're on my iPhone—but that didn't seem—"

"Why am I in my bedroom?" Carlton shifted around, carelessly tightening sheets to his shins, beholding the gloriousness of his own room: the pale walls, the windows letting in another round of dim daylight, the closet door uncharacteristically open a trifle. That's when he noticed Shawn in a blue shirt with vertical white stripes, its collar open to another white henley beneath. On the end of the bed was a tie, as though waiting to be knotted at Shawn's neck. _That's my tie, _Lassiter thought. And—the shirt, well, there was no mistaking its sacred origin. "Why are you wearing my shirt? And—and that other one is my shirt, too! Shawn! Why are you stealing my clothes? You're a clotheshorse! Wear your own!"

"That's a really funny story." Shawn attempted to stall, rotating his hand in a semi-circle. "And I don't know which question to answer first." At least he was spared being asked the time, since Carlton dragged his watch from its place on the headboard, and did a double-blink at the hour. "We let you sleep in. Well—I did. Jules and Gus had to dart back to their place. Wouldn't be right for Juliet to show up in her blue cupcake pajamas, I suppose, especially when JP Laramie arrives."

"Laramie? Is coming here?" He sprang out of bed, not yet sure how he got there when he clearly remembered falling asleep on the couch. A bee-line for the closet, and he grabbed the first ensemble to touch his hand.

"The chief called. She told me. Now, relax, Lassie, it's all being taken care of. I have your toast ready to go, and you can eat it on the drive to the station. Laramie won't be here for, oh," he looked at Lassiter's watch, then tossed it to him, "another fifteen to twenty minutes, at least. So, which question do you want answered? I'll find you some socks. First, the shirt. Well, that's easily explained. I went into the bathroom to shave—your razor is awesome, by the way, I must get one for myself—and I spilled water all down the front of my sweatshirt. The one I had on last night, you know. I thought 'Hey, what do I care? This slob look could work for me! And it'll dry!' It gets worse. After shaving, I emptied the coffee pot, and as soon as it hit the sink, it ricocheted to join the water on my sweatshirt. I swear Brad laughed at me. Result: a raid of Carlton's closet—the non-proverbial one."

"I can't let you out of the house—and go to the station—in my shirt!" Anger poured icily through his system, that he dressed so fast to spare a thought of unnerved he usually was getting dressed in front of someone else. He counted himself lucky that he'd been asleep—or apparently unconscious—while Shawn pilfered the wardrobe—or while the two of them— But, as it typically happened, Carlton noticed that he was different around Shawn, that Shawn colored the world differently, like a rare sunrise.

"What are you worried about?" in mock sincerity. "You haven't worn this shirt in, like, four years. No one will notice. Don't you think it's a bit Mel Gibson, huh? _Lethal Weapon_? All I need is bigger hair and a baseball cap."

"And crazy blue eyes," Carlton added contemptuously.

"And a gun."

"Not going to happen."

"Fair enough. Let's both overlook the fact that his former wife's name was Victoria."

"Agreed." Being honest with himself, Carlton didn't care that Shawn wore that shirt: it was a little long in the sleeves, but the neck fit fine. He hated that it looked better on Shawn that it ever had on him.

"That makes you," Shawn pointed to Carlton, tucking shirttails into his pants, "Danny Glover."

"No, it doesn't."

"I won't let you be Gary Busey. And, oh my God, that would make my mom Mary Ellen Trainor! That is _so cool_!"

"Shawn! How'd I get in my room?"

"I carried you."

Carlton stared.

Shawn flubbed the fib by snickering. "No, I didn't. I jest. It's not really something I can explain, except that you came in by your own accord right after I drifted off. There. That's all. I didn't know you walked in your sleep—or that you were _that_ fond of your bed. Though I have to say I've never known a better night's sleep. Plus, your house doesn't have that," he made a gesture as a man does when trying to capture a faint, elusive odor, "that moldy, after-dinner-mint kind of smell that my place has on damp nights. I slept well, thank you for asking. Just wish I had slept longer." Or woken up in an altered world, the kind he didn't have to think about what would happen when Joseph Peter Laramie got a hold of his son after two years.

He was continuously flipping through the notebook, measuring out tiny instances from that case and the ones that came behind it, as Lassiter finished his morning tasks. Every time he looked down the hall, Shawn was on the couch, his attention fixed on that damn notebook, twirling that same damn pen among damnably nimble fingers. What did he _see_ in that thing, anyway? Well, some psychics use crystal balls, others tarot cards. Maybe Shawn's method was graptomancy.

He snatched keys and herded Shawn out the door, ordering him to lock it, and saw he needn't have said anything. He thought their shortness of time justified use of the gumball.

They were at the station and inside, without Shawn giving more than a grunt to a few cordial questions about Juliet and Gus. Shawn bit on the end of his thumb, agitated, apprehensive, but Juliet was already there and gave him a solid if overused jeer.

"Shawn," she scrutinized his outfit, "why are you so dressed up? Oh, my gosh, did somebody die?"

"No. We hope. Mr. Laramie here yet?"

"Not yet." Juliet stayed her inquisitive course. "Why are you wearing," she paused, "half a suit?"

Lassiter rolled his eyes, veered away to his desk. Shawn plunked into the chair next to the end of Juliet's workspace.

"Are Jason and Avery here?"

"They came in about five minutes ago. They're in the chief's office. They're fine," she insisted. "Or as fine as they're going to get right now."

"I hear that." Shawn ducked and shifted his shoulders to see through the blinds over Chief Vick's office windows. Avery paced, and there wasn't a visual of Jason. "My dad?"

"Day off," she paused, reconsidering, "but that doesn't mean he won't show up."

"Oh, he'll be here, believe me. Where's Gus?"

"I left him at home. He said he might come in later, but he does have another job to report to."

"Dammit," hissed Shawn. "Why's he got to be so righteous? Why can't he just lie to them once? Who would've known he wasn't back in town? It would've given him at least another week's vacation."

"Not everyone has your keen sense of loyalty."

"Well, that's true. Jules," he began in a sweet intonation, the better to scam information out of her that he mightn't have acquired as easily.

"What do you want, Shawn?"

"I'm becoming transparent to all of you, aren't I? My tricks don't work anymore. H'mm, all right, moving on—"

"Please do."

"I want to know if Avery has been asked by the FBI, or even the vice dudes, to sit with a sketch artist."

Juliet found the query startling and without much foundation. "I haven't heard. Why would he?"

"Two words: Summer Preacher."

He got nowhere with Juliet, who was in the early stages of gorging on the files belonging to the case, from Jason Laramie's disappearance two years ago, to the dead body by the pool and subsequent toxicology reports. Boring, boring paperwork! It was one of the reasons he'd despised the idea of becoming a cop. That, and, well—the natural predilection to abominate anything that his father did or loved. He mused silently that Lady Olga would say he was letting his Sun in House 10 bother him again—then made a hasty mental note to write an essay about that to sell it off to a magazine or blog somewhere. Not that it would be enough to pay rent next month, but— He grabbed one of her dismissed files, hearing Juliet's whiny protest, then her resignedly saying to be careful with it. But he kept glancing upwards, to the chief's office, espying minimal changes, and finally lost all his patience.

Avery looked a mess, his eyes red from sleeplessness, and an unhealthy pallor that made Shawn wonder if the parasitical Vomit Monster hadn't found another victim last night. Jason, seated on the sofa, seemed the calmest of the three in the room, but he stared into space, one knee constantly jumping up and down. Shawn had a notion that he was rehearsing what to say to his father when the confrontation began. He greeted Shawn abysmally, while Avery was too overcome to do more than flick his head in the standard "Jock Hello."

"Chief," Shawn went right to her. "Chief Karen," he halted, and thought he'd test his luck as well as her patience, "Catalina Vick—I have come on a mission from Degas."

Degas. That fit in somehow, didn't it? Yes, the conversation at the Psych office the night before, with Gus and Carlton, and Juliet having bought a replica Degas statue. Sort of made the whole circle complete.

"Nice try," she simpered, "but it isn't Catalina. What do you want, Mr. Spencer? And who died?"

He ignored the tired query, was rather glad he hadn't put on the tie yet, and shoveled himself up to a brazen height. Because, dammit, he thought he looked really dapper. He hadn't felt so dapper since Gus's wedding—and even then he'd been so maimed by their prank that he hadn't felt the least bit sexy. "I want to talk to Avery for a moment. Actually, I just want to ask him a question. I'll be quick."

"You usually are. Go ahead. But the moment Mr. Laramie gets here—"

"I'll be gone faster than the taffy in your candy dish, Chief." He didn't move, never took a step nearer Avery, but instead raised up the notebook to the sketch he'd done in the Wee Smalls. Avery stopped pacing, gazed once at the notebook, then at Shawn, fear and doubt spilling from him. "Do you recall having seen this woman at any time in the last two years?"

Avery gave the crude sketch another leer. He couldn't say it was a stranger's face. It wasn't. But from behind, Jason whispered hoarsely and shallowly.

"I know her." He looked at Avery, whose memory was so much sharper, who hadn't forgotten their awkward early days in New York. "Do you remember? She was a regular at the Violet Loft." His glance heralded information to Shawn and Chief Vick. "That's the club we used to go to. It's where I—we," he hinted that he and Avery had trysted there, rather than saying that they had met there, which was too big of a lie to fall from his mouth, "we went sometimes. I never really talked to her, but—but I can remember faces." He took the sketch in his hands, hoping it would give the face depth and definition beyond the inexpert work of a pen. "Where'd you get this?"

"It's Summer Preacher," Shawn said. "She was the one who, supposedly, found Van Weyl's body next to the pool. She is someone who also works for—maybe _worked_ for—Chico Ramone."

"So," Avery became stronger, the puzzle's insipidness beginning to loosen the constriction at his throat, "Summer Preacher isn't her real name."

Shawn titled his head. "Out of curiosity, Avery, what is your real name?"

"Mr. Spencer," Vick gave him a clear warning not to pry. "The FBI has been more than forthcoming regarding Avery Tree's past, as he's been. Mr. _Tree_," she emphasized the surname to make it clear Avery was to go on being Avery Tree—and she couldn't handle all of this name-switching, "has no outstanding warrants or legal entanglements. I'll tell the FBI about Summer Preacher visiting the Violet Loft a couple of years ago, though I don't know that we'll be able to use the information for anything."

"But, don't you see, Chief," Shawn said, "that puts her in the same place as our two friends here—two whole years before—before _what_—she just magically shows up in Santa Barbara, next to a dead guy that just magically happens to be this guy's father's lawyer! Come on!"

"Out, Mr. Spencer."

Passing in front of the door was Henry, who heard the sternness from Chief Vick. He went in, grabbed Shawn at the arm, and forced him to exit. Shawn knew it was too much to hope that his dad would take a whole day off.

"Haven't you got some exfoliating to do or something mounted on a plaque to dust?"

"Not today." He, too, glanced over Shawn's outfit, and, thinking it peculiar, thought of something out of the norm to say. "Going for the Sergeant Riggs look today, huh? Doesn't that make Gus Sergeant Murtaugh?"

"Oh, don't you start with my clothes, too! Give me a break! I was at Lassiter's all night, luckily not puking up more of my insides, but up to my insomnia-filled eyeballs with this case! My clothes from yesterday were unwearable, so I borrowed Lassiter's shirts. I have a tie around here somewhere—and thank _God _I haven't put it on yet—!"

"Hey, calm down, Shawn, calm down." Henry smoothed Shawn's shoulders beneath gentle hands. Lastly, he tapped him at each arm, in a more manly fashion. "You look very nice. Put on the tie. I haven't seen you wear one in a long time. You didn't have to at the wedding. I'd forgotten you knew how to tie a tie. Or will Lassiter do it for you?"

Shawn's brow furrowed, warning signs blaring in his overawed brain. "Wait a minute! Why are you being so—so nice? And I know how to tie my own ties, thank you."

"Every good man does."

"I learned from the best."

Henry faintly smiled, thinking Shawn implied him. Shawn gazed away to give the punch line.

"That guy on You Tube really knows what he's doing."

Henry thought of retracing Shawn's first question, why the act of niceness. Finally having the nerve to instigate a strange conversation, perhaps better left for a place a little more private, Shawn tapped him, and with a nod of his head indicated the rise of five persons from the direction of the main corridor. New arrivals: at the forefront, walking with a cool, unaffected air of a man engrossed in his own importance, Joseph Peter Laramie. Shawn reverted to a sympathetic unease for Jason, thinking nothing, until later, of how the reunion would affect Avery.

Juliet stood with the two of them in order to satisfy a private craving to witness the affluent businessman react to seeing his son for the first time in years. But the FBI preceded them, and as soon as the door shut, blinds were rapidly closed to ward off suspicious gazes.

"Creepy," mumbled Shawn. "I wonder what's going on in there? Jules, how'd you feel about a little visit to the air shafts?"

"Be serious, Shawn. I'm not going to crawl through the vents to hear what they're saying. The Chief's in there, anyway."

"Probably hiding under the desk by now," added Carlton, arriving with a suave judgement of the FBI's methods of interrogation. He had visions of the Chief in tears at interview's end.

"Well," Shawn said, trying to sound chipper, like the meeting going on behind closed doors wasn't important to him, "I've got some research to do. Anyone know if Detective Arlette's still on vacation? I'd like to use someone's computer."

"You can use mine," Henry said, guiding Shawn to his desk, but giving a surreptitious glance at the office, his own hesitations nudged beyond the sprouting stage, now fully in bloom.

It took about five minutes for everything to change, for the relatively quiet, business-like sounds of the station to acquire the dazzling dissonance of men's raised voices. Shawn, who'd been reading blogs and reviews of _What's My Role? _followed Juliet, Lassiter and his dad to the honeycomb of activity. The bristling hive was undoubtedly JP Laramie in the Chief's office. With such force was he heard that the entire floor of the building found themselves hampered, their duties stalled. Shawn heard what was said, angry sentiments, the usual statements that a father would say to his son when emotional betrayal was thrown into the mix. He became self-conscious of his own father standing near him, and Lassiter on the other side of him, as if the whole instance was a preview of an upcoming event in his own life.

"I don't care how wonderful things are for you right now!" Laramie went on, with persistent pacifications from the Chief ignored. "You walked out! Maybe you don't remember, but I remember! As far as I'm concerned, you could've stayed missing for another two years—or two decades—and I would've been happy with that! Why couldn't you have done what I told you? Why'd you get involved with this—this dancing idiot? Max should've never cared about you so much that he's gone and—and— It's your fault he's dead! You're the one who should be in his place! Instead, a good man's dead, and the world's left with you! What a consolation! But, you know what? I told the FBI I would come out here for myself to see if Max left you with any sense! Of course he didn't! Maybe I was an idiot for letting him do what he liked. I'm done, though, Jason—I mean it. I'm done! Do you hear me? You get yourself out of your own mess now! There's no Max to look after you!"

The Chief was saying all sorts of things no one could hear, that JP Laramie wouldn't listen to, before the office door opened with a swish to the blinds, a rush of Laramie's fumes of ire. Members of staff thought of going about their business like they hadn't heard him, but neglected to fulfill it, so that they stood around, stupidly staring at him as he, a troop of bodyguards, and two FBI suits, hurried out the way they'd come.

Shawn's heart was so wrenched by the episode that he could feel the hot prickling of his own eyes. It was a mistake to raise his gaze to the tableau, the stage the rigorous scene of disdain had just played. Jason, hands at his hips, was drained of all color. He tipped out of the room to look down the hall to catch a final glimpse of his father. Vick had her arms crossed, breathing heavily, and, much like Shawn, was intensely affected by what they'd seen. Avery's suffering was the worst. He staggered a little where he stood, shuddering and shivering, crying to the point of inner sickness. Jason heard him saying again and again that he was sorry, sorry about Max, sorry that they had ever met. And even though his own father had just disowned him a second time, Jason put his own despair aside to hold Avery, to console him. That was when Chief Vick cottoned on to the party outside gaping in, and promptly shut the door with an expression of utmost exasperation. Shawn was glad that the doors had closed, that the scene had ended; but he stood there, perfectly still, for minutes together, just to play it over and over again.

"Shawn," Henry started, eager to say the few lines he'd slaved over for the better part of the last two days, before something else came along to terrify him, "I want to talk to you."

"Not now, Pop. I got something on my brain."

"I got something on my brain, too. About you."

Shawn, his head still lowered, lifted just his eyes to perceive his father. "Is this about my clothes? I told you before—!"

"No, no, it's not. Or—maybe—a little—sort of."

"I haven't got time for your fashion tips right now. Call my stylist and set up an appointment."

"Shawn, come on."

Shawn headed to Juliet's desk. She sat there patting a wadded tissue under her eyes, moving the tissue to a dry spot to pat under her nose. She was not the only detective, male or female, experiencing an emotional hemorrhage. A cursory inspection showed many somber faces among the second floor. Detective Bachman had just put his phone to his ear, and Shawn heard him say, "Hi, Dad, it's—it's me…" as though an epidemic of filial love had infected the whole department.

"Dad," Shawn spun around, thinking he would catch him before he walked away, only to find Henry hadn't taken a single step either direction. "That—that night that you called the airport to check on flights—"

"What about it?"

"Did you happen to check for any flights? I mean, someone other than Chico Ramone and his known aliases?"

Henry tilted his head, trying to find the stepping stones across Shawn's process of thought. Though he'd taught Shawn practically everything, except, apparently, how to produce a double-Windsor, he didn't have the vaguest idea where Shawn's leaps might land. "No, I didn't. You didn't ask me to."

"Don't deflect," Shawn retorted. "You're still a good cop. I would've asked you to, only I didn't think about it until now. Will you do that for me? I—I—there's something I want to check, I need to check, back at the Tanglevine Club."

"Fine, but you're not going back to that giant Samoan bouncer alone. Lassiter!"

Lassiter, who'd once been rather used to Henry Spencer yelling out his name on occasion, received the herald with due dedication. His response wasn't as respectful as his action. "What?"

"Take the kid here down to the Tanglevine Club and let him snoop around. We can't get a warrant, though, so be extra cautious."

Lassiter summarized Shawn, also wondering where this was going to lead. They'd already been there. What had they established then that was different now? "All right. I'm game. Shouldn't we take O'Hara?"

"No," Henry caught Juliet staring dolefully into the Van Weyl crime scene photos, "leave her with me. I think I might go out to the airport, and it'd be nice to have her along. She's got younger eyes than yours truly." While Shawn stepped away, anticipating a quick departure, Henry held Carlton back. "Be careful—and don't let him audition for a show, whatever you do."

He let Lassiter go, and saw him meet Shawn near the front desk, with a soft touch at an elbow and a brief exchange of words. He pondered asking Juliet for insights—but decided it was just better not to know. The run-in between JP Laramie and Jason had unhinged him, as it had a lot of them. But many insults Laramie had said seemed like something Henry might've dished to Shawn once upon a time, old and angry thoughts that continued to hold too much present topicality.

At his desk for a couple of minutes, running through memories, he brightly welcomed O'Hara the second she arrived. Harassing her into an immediate departure to the airport seemed too callous, and decided he'd wait for her to compose herself naturally. True to detective form, O'Hara had recovered quicker than he. "What can I do for you?"

"Give me something to do," she pleaded. "I just got back, and I've read the file but I don't really know what direction to take—and I don't want to step over anyone else's ideas. But, it's that I—I want to help them. I _need_ to help them. I was hoping you'd have a suggestion."

"As it so happens, Detective, I was thinking of taking a drive out to the airport. I want to poke around, maybe flash Van Weyl's picture to a few flight attendants and janitors. The usual drill. You up for it? Heck, I'm feeling so chipper, I'll even spring for coffee and a donut."

"Just let me get my coat. Is the sun ever going to shine again? Honestly..."

Henry let his eye briefly favor O'Hara, wondering what it would've been like if she and Shawn— But that was a waste of imagination. He should've known that a long time ago. Things were freakishly settled the way they'd turned out, so far.

They briefed the Chief on their plans, and dutifully provided skint knowledge of Shawn and Lassiter's scheme. She approved, even approved when Henry asked Avery and Jason if there was anything he could get for them. They said no, with their thanks, but Juliet said they ought to get them something, anyway.

"I always like something sweet and high in calories after I have a good outburst, you know? We can get some cinnamon rolls. There's this great bakery over in San Roque."

"Oh, yeah, with the cake and stars painted on the window," said Henry, the two of them falling into grins and weak laughter. "We can stop there on the way back. I don't know what we'll find at the airport. Maybe nothing. Maybe something. Shawn seemed to think it was important. I think he thinks Van Weyl might have just flown in. So, Detective," he politely opened the door for her, charming and flattering her, "on the way there, I'd be happy if you could you tell me anything about Carlton Lassiter that I don't already know."

.

.

.


	9. Part the Ninth

Part the Ninth

-x-

Conversation was out of the question. So far removed from the question that Lassiter doubted whether the question actually existed in the first place. A drive to the Tanglevine Club was not a long one, it being on the other side of State Street, somewhat northwest of the station. But there were such things in Santa Barbara as traffic lights, and unmarked detective's car or not, Lassiter had to stop. If in a bigger hurry, well, that would've been different. According to Shawn's disposition, with him slouched in the seat and staring pensively, silently out the window, at the same run of houses and shops he'd seen a million times before, there was no reason to rush.

"I don't understand," Lassiter started, finally chipping away at the iceberg between them. "Tell me again what you think we're going to find there."

"An ending," was all Shawn said at first. His head ached. He was as sick of thinking about his contaminated sinuses as he was sick of thinking about the case. "You know, Lassie, I really don't think this is going to have quite the happy, cheery, daisies-in-a-meadow kind of ending that I rather pride myself on."

Lassiter ignored this. He hadn't spent meticulous hours over the years measuring Shawn's prognostication abilities. There was no pie chart, no curriculum vitae, only a nebulous understanding that Shawn was good at what odd profession he'd fallen into. Not quite a cop. Not quite psychic either. Just lodged somewhere in the middle. A man without a plan, but a man with a debilitating sinus infection.

"You should've stayed home," Lassiter grumbled angrily when Shawn delivered a load of mucus into a tissue, "or at least gone to the doctor."

"I can't."

"Yeah, clearly, Spencer."

"No, I mean—light's green, Lass—" Shawn gripped the "Oh Shit!" handle above the door while Lassie gunned the V-8 engine through the intersection. The sudden need to be honest seized Shawn, to see how it felt, what the reaction would be of someone who'd done a damn good job pretending he cared. "I mean I can't go to the doctor. Unless I've got some spare change lying around that I don't know about."

"And I don't follow."

"I don't have any health insurance," Shawn said in an uninterested whine. Now that he'd said it aloud to another human being—Masset the Mouse did _not_ count in this case—he despised himself for wanting to test the truth.

Carlton's mouth tightened, as did his hands on the wheel. He took a deep breath, but—oh God—it was disturbing—maddening! "Why—why," once he started with the question word du jour, the rest fell out of him in a single gush, "why are you going around playing psychic detective in dangerous cases when you don't have any health insurance?"

Shawn had to take a moment to register the definition of every word in that sentence. Medicine, goobers, a little bit of fear of what they'd find at the Tanglevine Club, seemed to chop up words into an unreadable Webster's Dictionary Salad. "First of all, I did have health insurance. You think I'd be doing this all this time if I didn't? But I sort of—got older—and my rates kept going up—and I couldn't—" Dammit, he should've known this was going to hurt, both his pride and his heart, and he didn't have the courage. He covered his mouth with fingers and went back to gazing at the town outside the window. "I didn't have the money."

Only it was smeared and murmured, and Lassiter barely heard it over the noise of the car, the fat drops of rain against the windshield. He loosened and tightened his hands on the steering wheel. Cold leather wasn't a fitting substitute for Shawn's neck.

"Why didn't you tell one of us? Or your father? I didn't know you were having money problems."

"I'm not having money problems!" That was a half-truth stretched out until it began to resemble a lie. He required very little a year to live on, most of which still came from Gus, though Shawn knew that now Gus was married the handouts wouldn't last long. What he'd earned in the last six months hadn't been enough, and something had to go. Through circumstance, not choice, he'd gotten rid of the one expendable drain to his funds. "Just—health insurance problems. And what in the world would you have done about it if I'd told you? Nothing. Am I right? Nothing. And it would've just freaked out Gus—and my dad—not to mention my mom and Jules. It's my own little grownup problem. I'll handle it."

"When? When you've got pneumonia?"

"When I win the lottery, of course. Turn left up here."

Carlton's hand jammed down the turn signal, for once too angry to disobey mundane traffic laws set up to keep civilians, not him, in order. "I can't believe you're being so flippant about this."

"And I can't believe you really want to talk to me about this." He watched Carlton clamp his jaw shut, as if to say that no, no indeed he did not want to talk about this. Not then. Not ever. Shawn was sorry he'd said anything. "This is why I can't talk to you in the car. We argue. And then you never, ever promise me we'll get some ice cream afterwards. I'd be angry back at you if I could. But you just—sit there—all angry-like."

"I'm not angry," Carlton said. He measured the honesty of the statement, and found it worth repeating to increase its validity. "I am not angry at you, Shawn."

"Disappointed?"

"No. More like bewildered. But that's normal whenever you're around. I just can't believe you would do something like that and not tell one of us. Did they drop you or did you just not pay the bills or—"

"I called them and told them their rates were too high. They laughed at me. And now," Shawn undid the safety belt and earnestly opened the door, "this conversation had ended."

He pretended to shake off Carlton's hand on his arm, but was finally forced to yield. Now he was sorrier than ever that he'd said it. But he'd felt the need to say something, before Gus and Juliet kept prattling on about him going to the doctor later that day, before Lassiter and, heaven forbid, his father, hopped on the bandwagon of "Let's Get Shawn to the Doctor!" He couldn't stand it anymore. Lassiter, too, he couldn't stand looking at, breathing the same air as him, right then. Carlton didn't look bewildered, but maudlin, tired, weary. Shawn had been coaxed into reclaiming his seat, shutting the door against the rain, and waiting for a reprimand. It never came.

"Um," Carlton tried to find a way out of the debacle, "we can't just go into the place without a plan. You have to tell me what you're looking for in there." He examined the entrance from their position across the street. "It looks closed. It's still early. I don't even think our beefy Samoan is here yet."

"I'm looking for Summer Preacher," Shawn blurted. He knew he'd been waiting for her to reappear, particularly after discovering that she'd known Avery and Jason at the Violet Loft in New York City. Every tether attached to Carlton's attention span was suddenly Shawn's, and he wished for something more profound to say. "The nightclub that Jason and Avery used to go to, before they left New York, wasn't so far from one of the nightclubs that Chico Ramone owned. Or owns. Lass," he positioned himself at an angle, as though the two of them were going to discuss what to have for dinner that evening, "I'm telling you there's something weird with all of this. Why didn't the FBI know ahead of time that the body was Van Weyl? Why did JP Laramie come all the way out here just so he could yell at his son—again? Why is the FBI still letting us investigate the method in which Van Weyl was killed? No, listen to my words closely. The method in which he was killed. Not Van Weyl himself—we don't know crap about him and no one's asked us to dig—much like Chico Ramone himself—but just the way he died."

"We met Ramone."

"Yeah, supposedly. Did you see him flash a passport? No, he didn't. What's to stop Chico Ramone from being like one of his cabaret performers? Avery Tree's been using a false identity for years, since before he met Jason. Jason can't call him anything but Avery, but Avery's not his first name. Not his real one, anyway. Jason only took an alias when he left New York with Avery, which we presumed was because he found work under Chico Ramone. And Ramone likes it when his employees have other names. Anyone who watched _What's My Role?: New York _knows that Jason Laramie's got a wicked set of pipes."

"Yeah. So? What's your point?"

"Avery blanked when I showed him my sketch of Summer Preacher, but Jason remembered her face. Not her name. Just her face."

One of Carlton's eyebrows bent inward, along with a narrowing of his eyes. Shawn was so sure that Carlton was beginning to understand, the same way that, through the morning hours, Shawn had started seeing it, too. When Carlton had translated the prose into logic, he didn't brighten, didn't grimace, and nothing about him showed an ounce of excitement. But, if Shawn was correct, then he was also correct when he'd said this case would have no daisies-in-a-meadow ending.

"So that means that either Summer Preacher, Avery Tree or Jason Laramie never really worked for Chico Ramone to begin with. That it was just a cover."

"Or an assumption," Shawn said. "Which might've been my fault. One of them might've just followed along with what I'd said, though I can't remember if I said anything to give it away. My fail there, Lassie."

"If I remembered half the things that you forget, I'd think I was pretty awesome."

Shawn smiled weakly. It was a lovely but backwards compliment. "I can't think that it's Avery's or Jason's fault. I know for sure that neither one of them is involved in murder."

"Your bet is on Preacher."

"Yeah. What was the first thing she blurted out to us when we got to the crime scene?"

"Something about one of us smelling like Chico Ramone."

"Exactly. To get me thinking about Chico Ramone."

"And you did. I wouldn't have picked up on that."

"Never mind," Shawn said, cupping his hands and pinning them anxiously between his knees. "There's a lot about this case, and the last few days, that I wish I'd picked up on sooner. It has something to do with real estate. With JP Laramie. If our beefy Samoan hadn't told me that the man I saw sitting in the club the other day was Chico Ramone, I'd almost believe Ramone didn't have a hand in any of this. But that's what I expect to find inside the club. Since we're practicing the art of the assumption, let's assume," he rekindled his charming, arrogant facade, "that we can actually find a way in, sans search warrant."

Carlton gave a lengthy, steady gaze, purposefully indescribable to Shawn. At the end of it, he snapped so fast, moved so quickly forward, a hand outstretched, that Shawn wrenched himself into the corner. But Carlton was only opening the glove compartment. From inside, after lifting papers, a nondescript—almost literally—semi-automatic pistol appeared. He swung it around in the most deft maneuvering Shawn had ever seen: it was flat in his palm, extended outward.

Shawn looked at the gun, looked at Carlton, back to the gun. Was he really seeing what he was seeing? But it couldn't be. It had to be a myth. "A Baikal? What paraplegic teenaged gang member did you swipe that piece of shit from?"

In reaction to Shawn's aspersion, Carlton's fingers curved against the gun's handle. "Do you want it or not?"

Shawn was indecisive. "I'm having a nightmare, aren't I? This is some kind of nightmare. First, my dad pretends to be all touchy-feeling, and wanting to know about my clothes, and insinuating that you had something to do with—I don't even—and my head feels like it has a roller derby going on inside of it—not to mention—not to mention you and your whole 'Come closer, Shawn! No, stay away, Shawn!' one-man show. And now we're sitting here, not knowing what the hell we're getting into, on so many levels, and you're going to give me a handgun after I've been asking for one for years? I really want you to rewind here for a second, Carlton. Why would you now—right now—choose to give a Baikal to a psychic detective with an acute sinus infection and absolutely no health insurance?"

"I'm not," Carlton replied so quietly and dimly that Shawn's shoulders sunk. "I'm choosing to give a weapon to a competent detective that I trust with my life, who's going to watch my back when we go inside the known hangout of a suspicious international drug dealer." He emphasized the pistol with a lift of his hand, in the position mimicked from a minute before. "All right?"

Chest heavy with tension, unable to fight it off but with trembling breaths through his open mouth, Shawn grabbed the Baikal. It was cold, weighty, and small enough to make his hand feel huge. Really, really strange. The whole thing—strange. What did Carlton think they were going to find in the Tanglevine Club that justified this? Maybe it was the clothes. The Sgt. Riggs look he'd accidentally aspired to that day. Maybe that was weaving this weird illusion.

"Not a word to the Chief about this," Carlton snapped. "Or O'Hara. I know you have a couple of guns yourself."

"At my great-uncle's," Shawn murmured. "Not here. It's much more fun shooting targets at his place."

"Well, be that as it may, I also know how well you can shoot. But don't," he stalled, aware that his hand had fallen to Shawn's knee, without any conscious decision to put it there, "don't actually shoot anything, okay, Spencer?"

Shawn nodded, glancing once and futilely on the hand at his knee as it squeezed, but it let go too soon to touch it. He was out of the car ahead of Lassie, had time to hold the bottom of the pistol to the light. The serial number hadn't been scratched off, heralding the gun's legitimacy. He checked the safety, checked the magazine. It was fabulous holding one of those things again, winding him back to his time spent at Uncle Fenz's, popping aluminum cans off the rail fence in the backyard, all that trick shooting that he'd learned from someone more competent, for once, than Henry Spencer.

_Someone more competent._

Fathers.

"Dad," Shawn whispered, the circuitous thoughts swarming around noisily, ceaselessly. He told Lassiter to wait. It seemed to take forever for Dad to answer his phone.

"Shawn?"

"Dad," Shawn knew he sounded panicked. "Do me a favor. Make sure JP Laramie doesn't leave the city. Bring him back to the station. Don't let him leave town."

"O'Hara and I are on our way to the airport now. What's—?"

"Good. No, stick with that. You'll see for yourself that he hasn't been there lately. Neither has Van Weyl. This is bursting open, Dad. And it'll be better if he goes back to the station." He looked at Lassiter, calm and benevolent and standing close to him. It was comforting, oddly, as everything was odd that day, to stand in Carlton's shadow. "This isn't going to have the kind of ending I thought it would. But it'll have a better ending than I thought it would yesterday. Just—trust me on this. Have I ever steered you wrong?"

"Not any time that it was actually important. You find anything at the Club?"

"We haven't gone in yet. I wanted to call you first."

There was a saccharine quality in Shawn's voice that rendered Henry temporarily dumb. He adhered to it, then tried to shake it off, or alter it enough to fit his method of feeling a father's love for a son who'd never played by the rules. "You know, Shawn—I've been meaning to tell you that I think it's okay if you're—"

Shawn wasn't ready for that yet. "I gotta go. See you at the station. Hugs and kisses, Pop."

Henry passed a mean growl into the blank line before taking it from his ear. "Dammit, Shawn. When are you going to listen?" He knew he'd made O'Hara uncomfortable. "They're at the Tanglevine Club. Will you call the Chief and see if she can get Laramie back to the station?"

Juliet was only too happy to have something else to do. Phoning Chief Vick was an improvement over speculating on what Henry Spencer had been ready to say to his son.

Shawn hung up, slung the phone into his back pocket, and, like they did in the movies—way too many to name—he slid the Baikal into the rear waistband of his jeans. "Wow, that's uncomfortable," he said, pulling it out again. It would just have to stay in his hand. Right there. For all the bad guys to see. He switched it to his left hand, glad they were in an alley off the main drag, no traffic to speak of, but heading to a building that looked deserted. The posters for the upcoming show, which was to have starred Avery Tree, had been stripped from the glass frames. He already knew there were no employees at the theater. The parking spaces in the rear were empty. Carlton had noticed it already, too, and looked confusedly at the front entrance, the biggest obstacle to acquiring the information he and Shawn needed. Shawn jiggled the door handle. Incontestably locked, of course.

"No one's inside," Carlton said.

"There is someone inside. Can't you hear that music?"

Carlton titled to rest an ear against the door. Distinctive thumps, low-end bass. He straightened. "Someone's blasting club music. Little late in the day for a rave, isn't it?"

"We might have better luck at the side entrance."

Shawn tried to find somewhere to put the Baikal. It was weird just holding a gun. The front waistband of his jeans was far worse than the rear. The damn gun was so small that it nearly fit in the back pocket, and he was satisfied to leave it there while dodging dumpsters and crates shoved into the cracked concrete lot beside the theatre. The music's bass increased, with the stage in closer proximity, as Shawn judged whether the door had been opened lately. If his skills weren't so dull, he might've been able to notice something in the splashes of rain, the lay of the trash bag just beside the door—but his skills had been uniformly usurped. Through sheer will, and maybe from the Sgt. Riggs look, he held himself against the wall beside the door. He must've expressed enough uncertainty and hesitation for Carlton to doubt him.

"You ready?"

Shawn again silently nodded. It was just—weird. Maybe when he woke up. Maybe when he stopped feeling like the a thousand unicorns were trampling through his sinuses. Maybe when all of this was over it wouldn't seem half so strange.

"Stay low. Got it?" Carlton waited for Shawn's limp response. "You can take a vacation after this. Promise. Me too. But—not together. Simultaneously." The strength returned to Shawn's eyes, through a humorous sparkle. He patted him on the shoulder, the game-face slipping back into place.

Bent at the waist, Lassiter yanked at the door handle. It yielded with a grunt. The music's volume increased to the level that Shawn began to recognize it. Lassiter swished the gun around, found nothing conspicuous, only a deserted backstage corridor, and proceeded with caution. Shawn swerved in behind the shutting door. The music's bass reached everywhere, vibrating his insides and rattling the loose objects shoved along walls, on shelves, littering the floor. He followed Carlton to the front stage. The speakers gushed music. Lady Gaga. A club mix of "Poker Face." Shawn glanced around for a place to stop the noise, or at least turn it down, but found nothing—only discovering an unmoving human shape in the dim seating area. The only source of light was the filmy, silvery day oozing through the front doors' leaded windows, and a row of narrow slit windows off to the side. But it was enough to highlight a man at a table not much wider than he was. His forehead was pinned to the tabletop. A shot glass. A bottle of Grey Goose.

Carlton palpated for a pulse. He gave a shake of his head. "_Morte_. Still warm. Well, so much for worrying about the Samoan."

It was the Samoan. Shawn sniffed the top of the Grey Goose bottle. It was a little early for a rave, as Carlton had said, and perhaps a little too early to enjoy shots of vodka in tandem, too. There was a faintly almond scent to the bottle's contents, but Shawn was too quick to say it was strychnine or any other semi-soluble poison.

"I'll commit to his death being questionable at this point," Shawn said. If they hadn't been standing so close to one another, among spooky, unreal patches of dark and ethereal swabs of daylight, it was doubtful the two of them could hear one another. A nearly eight-minute remix began to fade out into sharp twangs, horns, and into a smooth tribal rhythm. "What do you think? You take this level, and I go up?"

Carlton wasn't convinced no one else lurked in the building. "Is this what you came here for?" He jutted out his chin to indicate the Samoan.

Shawn winced at the body. It went beyond explanation, but—no. "No. He's not the reason I wanted to come out here. I was looking for Summer Preacher."

"Then let's look. I'll scan this level, you go up. Don't shoot anything," he reminded Shawn a second time. Shawn had taken on an awkward shade of green, and a trace of perspiration glittered slightly on his forehead. He looked, in fact, really sick. "You're not—the Vomit Monster—?"

"Let's just do this so I can get out of here."

The music shifted. A whole continuous DJ mix faded seamlessly into the next song. Shawn supposed the Samoan had been listening to it as a means of inspection. Which, when pressed deeper and deeper into Shawn's thoughts, the further apart he was from Lassie, seemed an odd level of authority for the nightclub's bouncer.

Shawn had the luck of swooping in and out of dressing rooms, storage rooms containing old, dusty costumes, file boxes, folders, scenery. By accident, he found the A/V room, hot and smelling of ozone and electronics. He thought better of turning off Justin Timberlake, should the sudden cease of bass rhythm freak out Lassiter. But Shawn checked a few papers, a printed track list, a sentence scribbled in freehand beneath, an unrecognizable signature below. He left the room quickly, him being too cold and the room being too stuffy.

On the entresol, he saw Lassiter in the seating area below. He looked up at Shawn, shrugging, shaking his head, indicating that no one had yet been sighted. Something stern and profound stirred Shawn's belief that someone else was in that building. But if the Samoan had been poisoned, wouldn't the culprit have darted far beyond the country's borders by then? She or he would, if smart enough—unless she had some unfinished business.

Shawn indicated that he had two rooms left at the end of the balcony. He hadn't seen the manager's office yet, but his name was printed on a plaque and pasted on the door: Mike Cooligan. He recalled the name from police reports, interviews—and the signature on the bottom of the DJ mix track list. Why would Mike Cooligan have to write a note to the Samoan about the chosen music?

The office door wasn't latched all the way. A smell, at first tangled in the musty base scent of the upstairs, turned acrid in Shawn's nostrils. He could barely smell anything, but he'd recognize the scent of cordite under any condition. He'd been bent to peek into the room, expecting to meet someone who wouldn't mind blowing his head off—but he leapt up and pressed the door fully ajar with his fingertips.

His premiere sight of the office's interior was set up like a Jackson Pollock drip painting: red or black or navy—or all those shades—splashed and dappled the taupe walls. The more the door edged away from him, the more Shawn saw, and the lesson in abstract art ended. The paint was the natural splatter of blood. It amazed and horrified that so much blood had once been inside so tiny a person as Summer Preacher.

He went lank and indifferent. A form of shock, he later thought. Reacting involuntary, Shawn spun around, went to the balcony's iron railing, and hollered weakly for Lassiter. He'd seen enough crime scenes, enough dead bodies, doing what he had, but hers—that was the worst. But Lassiter's response was rapid. He saw what Shawn had, was immediately sorry that Shawn had seen it at all, that anyone had to. He took the pistol back from Shawn's wimpy fingers, and persuaded him out the theater's side door, where they'd entered.

Shawn, aware of Carlton's fingers clasping his palm, managed to shift through the case's collected debris. As raindrops mixed with the sweat on his brow, Shawn thought he had it—or supposed he did. Psychicness was ninety-percent guessing, anyway, and the remaining ten percent was histrionics, really. Neither guessing nor histrionics appealed to him then. He was glad to be pushed into the car: it smelled comfortably like Carlton, of old coffee and rain. Carlton expected nothing of him, and calmly radioed in the undetermined murder and the unquestionable suicide. Then the permeating silence of the cabin, the quiet broken by occasional huffs from Carlton, by larger-than-average drops of rain. He didn't have the slightest idea what to do with Shawn.

"I'm sorry—"

"Not your fault. And I don't really care," Shawn snapped back. "I'm just thinking. Lass, the Samoan—the bar bouncer—he's—"

"Been poisoned?"

"No. Well, yes." Shawn's vague nod and eyebrow lift acknowledged this. "But he's actually Chico Ramone." He'd expected no response, and was relieved that Carlton didn't sponsor one. "We just assumed he was the bouncer, didn't we? Oh, this is a rollicking case, this is. Assumption after assumption. How do people live like this? It's—it's not really for me. I prefer a little splurge of honesty and reality now and again. No, don't laugh."

Carlton wasn't even close to laughing, not really, though he supposed it could be seen as funny.

"Honesty and reality were a long way from the FBI, from Jason and Avery. Not to Summer Preacher."

"You don't have to do your big, spazzy reveal to me right now, Spencer. You'd better just sit there and rest before you throw up again. What?"

The far end of Shawn's mouth lifted, bringing a coruscant dance of fascination into his eyes. "I want a moment to marvel at you using the word 'spazzy.' No, let me revel." He took on an euphoric expression, complete with slightly gaping mouth and quick erotic breaths. A hand reached out and smacked him on the arm, forcing him to stop. "I just saw a woman's head blown to tiny, tiny pieces, Lassie. Let me laugh at something, would you? You've always been a good source of amusement. Also a strange source of affection. You know, like a warm puddle of soft rainwater glistening in the sunlight. Then I try to swim in it and it dries up on me. I hate that."

He'd gone a little too far, depicted by Carlton's lacking reply. They had a few minutes until the sirens started coiling through the air to announce reinforcements. The least they could do was entertain one another. He wondered how his dad and Jules were faring at the airport. If JP Laramie had gone back to the station yet. If Gus should be telephoned and told to show up there sometime in the next two hours. Shawn found he wasn't in the mood to hold that kind of conversation—it required too much accountability, too much explanation and responsibility—and his energy level had collapsed. Four hours of sleep would do that to a sick person, but it had been worth it. An invisible finger of warm prodded his heart when remembering what it was like to wake up and see Carlton asleep less than a foot away.

"So," Shawn started, trying to sound chipper and exhilarated, "who is it that Avery Tree reminds you of? Someone from college that you mentioned."

"I didn't mention that," lied Carlton.

"But you did say he reminded you of someone. A teacher? Counselor? Your Russian Literature professor?" He'd caught part of the truth, anyway, with the way Lassiter's gaze snapped on him. "Not a professor. A student. A fellow student?"

"You know, Shawn, you're not a very good house guest."

"I'm a perfect house guest. What are you talking about? I put the toilet seat down. Every time. When I spilled Hawaiian Punch on the sofa, I cleaned it up—and I even turned the cushion over."

"That was you?"

"Who else? And what's this have to do with a co-student from your college years? Do I get to play Twenty Questions? Was this during Graduate School? Undergraduate? Or—both?"

Both, Shawn deduced, as Carlton's mouth tightened into nonexistence, his eyes flashed into pools of radiant, ice-blue anger.

"A good house guest," Carlton resumed, "would have actually examined those books a little closer, if he wanted to snoop around so much."

"They're not your books? Whose books are they? Victoria's?" His hopefulness was lost in the whirling sirens, the headlights, the roof lights, plodding through the rain and fog.

The rest, of course, fell into a blear of activity, of waiting around, of cars and officers coming and going. Eventually, Shawn was left alone in Lassiter's vehicle, where he proceeded to contemplate the lay of the case, wanting to say nothing of his "readings" just yet. But planning it. Scoping it. And every once in a while tossing a look into the lightening rain to espy Carlton—then pity himself, then hate himself. Finally, after a half-hour of such a cycle, he set his head against his elbow, resting on the door, and tried to sleep. The door opened and closed, and Carlton, saying nothing, drove them away from the Tanglevine Club and into the station parking lot. In a section of visitor parking was a row of black SUV's, with blue and white government license plates: the FBI.

Henry and O'Hara were back, too, and everyone—nearly everyone, as it seemed—crammed themselves into the conference room. As Shawn entered, Henry was alarmed by how ill he looked. He tried to ask questions that were waved away. He tried to see if Shawn wanted anything, a kind gesture that was also ushered aside. But when Lassiter appeared a few minutes later, it was with a steaming mug, a tea bag label wrapped around the handle, that he placed on the table in front of Shawn. Being pampered by Lassie had its fine points, but Shawn knew he would've preferred not feeling sick at all. He gazed around at the room's important populace, from Jason and Avery, seated beside one another and each looking frozen in the impending horror; from Juliet, appearing patient as she stood beside his dad, who was determined to look unaffected. Two FBI agents, two guys from LA vice had come in, without reason, and without JP Laramie. They were waiting for him to arrive. He'd been reluctant to return. Shawn wished he could've talked to him, to tell him he didn't have anything to worry about, now that Ramone was dead.

Instead of wasting his time blowing on his tea to cool it to a degree of drinkability, he borrowed a yellow office pad, swiped a pen out of Lassiter's jacket pocket, and started scribbling. On the yellow paper with the thick blue lines, what he scribed wasn't the nonsense in his beloved dog-eared notebook. It was, however, the stuff that he'd tried so hard to see between the incomprehensible scribbles of his disorganized mind.

"Avery?"

Avery wasn't the only one startled by Shawn's voice erupting into the quiet room. "Yeah?"

"How long have you been a supposed employee of Chico Ramone?"

Avery looked dumb for a moment. He was so good at it, being pretty in face, with his wide eyes magnificently lashed. Shawn saw less of Avery's physical qualities than the tenderness of his person—and thought it was this arcane gentleness that had prompted memories in Lassie.

"About three or four years?"

"Probably around that, yeah. Three and a half. Because I started in the spring. Late March."

No one understood how this could be helpful, except, perhaps, the silent FBI, the foul-mouthed guys from vice. But Shawn went on writing, pausing to answer no one's inquiring glare. The only time he stopped was to sip his tea. Lemon Ginseng with a splash of honey. Lassie had got it right. Why couldn't Carlton take care of him forever? It seemed a shame to remember the blistering reason why it couldn't happen, and how he'd sworn off instigating anything without Lassie's blessing.

And, two minutes later, with the Chief leaving briefly, Shawn reached out again. "Avery?"

"Yeah?" He looked at Shawn, his messed up hair, his glossy, sickly sheen, but Shawn didn't raise his head off his palm. He was the sort of man that could write and think and speak all at once. And Avery thought it was a far more superb talent, really rather a talent that could get a man through an everyday kind of job. He had an idea that Shawn was a little more than a psychic, a jack of all trades and a master of every single one of them. Shawn Spencer couldn't have stood for anything less than mastery.

"You and Jason met while he was working on _What's My Role?: New York_. Is that correct?"

Avery's hesitancy to respond was normal. But, at last, he was released from the confines of secrecy by Jason tapping a knee against his. "No, not—not exactly. We were in prep school together, for a while, before I was—before I left home. We were friends. But we didn't see each other again until he was on the show."

"The two of you agreed to met at the Violet Loft to reestablish your friendship."

It wasn't a question, but Jason answered like it'd been one. "I had cameras following me around all the time. It was a reality TV show."

"And the only place the cameras weren't allowed was the Violet Loft. H'mm."

Shawn continued to write things down. Lassiter, next to him, could see that it wasn't just mundane drivel, that it wasn't broken up like the stuff he'd seen in Shawn's notebook. It was a layout of the whole crime—as Shawn had outlined it with dates and times and names. How was Shawn's brain that amazing, able to grasp the invisible and turn it into the tangible? He sighed and rubbed his brow, no ache there, but nothing reached the tumbles of anguish and anxiety further inside.

The door swung in to admit another member of the entourage. Gus heaved to catch his breath. He'd run from his car in the far lot just to find a room full of sour-faced individuals waiting around to do nothing. Shawn, though—Shawn looked awful. Gus edged uncomfortably away from leering FBI agents that always resembled Robert Patrick and Hugo Weaving. He squeezed around the table, patted Juliet on the arm, and decided it was too much trouble to maneuver his way through the throng to get to Shawn. He had no qualms emptying the room of its tense silence.

"Who are all these people?"

"The FBI," Juliet gestured to them, "and detectives from LA vice."

The FBI he could've known anywhere. Vice, on the other hand… "What's everyone standing around for?"

"We're waiting for Stevie Nicks tickets to go on sale," said Shawn, still managing to put the final touches on the crimes' outline. He decided that Juliet must've called Gus. It was after eleven, the hour when he could've shrugged it off as an early lunch break, probably a two-hour one.

There was an unprecedented flurry of activity, as one of the FBI agents answered his blurting phone, and the Chief came back to tell everyone else that JP Laramie had just pulled up to the building. No doubt the agent's phone call and the arrival of Mr. Laramie coincided. Shawn dipped the pen back into the inside pocket of Lassie's suit coat, had a sip of tea while examining the reaction of Avery and Jason. Anxious wasn't really the word. Terrified might've worked. Shawn told them not to worry, daisies in the meadow and all. Maybe not at first—but, hell, eventually they would pop up and grow, be cheery and live out a magnificent life unafraid of frost. He told them this, not exactly in the fashion of a roundelay, but in a saner way they understood, while Gus asked Juliet what was wrong with Shawn. She held the Van Weyl case file up to her mouth.

"He saw a suicide victim's body," she paused, feeling that this needed to be described better, "a really bad one."

Gus pantomimed a hanging. Juliet shook her head and pantomimed a gun going off in someone's mouth. He cringed and shot Shawn a look of sympathy, that Shawn pretended not to notice.

The dignified and gray-maned Laramie entered without the pomp in which he'd left the building hours before. But, as soon as he came in, Shawn stood up. He swiveled the notepad off the table, into his hand, and handed it off to Chief Vick. Then, grinning at the gathered horde, he grabbed his tea and started from the room.

"My work here is done," he said at the door, and rushed to fasten it behind him.

Chief Vick, mouth hanging open for a protest far too slow in arriving, read the tablet's contents. He eyes widened. It was all there in Shawn's girlish, sleepy scrawl. A sound, a faint groan of surprise, prefaced what she said to JP Laramie.

"Van Weyl wasn't actually on Mr. Ramone's payroll, Mr. Laramie. Though you sure went to extreme measures to make sure he wasn't. Including, as it seems," she tossed the notepad down, sending it skidding into JP Laramie's fingertips, "refusing to talk to your own son for two years."

The selected phrase had the intended effect on the room: there was shuffling, the crossing of arms and the folding of them, the intense looks from Avery and Jason to JP Laramie.

"Dad?" Jason started, unable to see how any of it was possible. "You—did this?"

"I had to be sure," Laramie said timidly. "It's been a mess, Jason. It's been hell. Max wanted to start his own company."

"Real estate," Lassiter said.

Laramie's assent was a feeble nod. "Yes. And, like any good friend would do, I let him. Midlife crisis of his or something, I don't know. Might've been better if the son of a bitch had just bought a sports car. He got into trouble right away. I bailed him out a few times. Gave him a little money. Then you ran off, Jason. Not that I blamed you," Laramie said quickly. He held his breath, looking at Jason, even shuffling his gaze sideways to look at Avery—actually look at him for the first time. "I wasn't especially nice to either of you. But I knew you admired Van Weyl and would've done whatever he told you to do."

"I wouldn't have," said Jason. "If you'd told me not to. I admired you more."

Laramie didn't know what to say. He knew it was true and that he'd underestimated his son's loyalty. He'd hoped, all the while, that he had underestimated Jason. "He was going to be bought out by Ramone. I don't know what happened. I didn't know he'd gone to the FBI," here he bobbed his head to the suits at the room's rear, "and offered to give evidence against Ramone. When he told me he was going to take the buyout from Ramone, I got worried about you."

"You sent Summer Preacher, one of Van Weyl's acquaintances," Vick said. "Not to make sure Van Weyl didn't get hurt, but to make sure your son was safe."

"I didn't know she worked for Ramone, too. The whole thing spiraled from there. I didn't kill him," Laramie said. "I've been in LA the last week talking with the FBI, with vice, so you know—don't you know?—that I didn't kill him. She did it. And Ramone. They weren't going to give him half a billion to buy out his company. Max must've known that. Sometimes I wonder—I wonder if he knew that it would've been a way for Ramone to get to me—or to you, Jason—if he already had—" He sighed, and everyone filled in Avery's name where Laramie couldn't. "I just wanted to be sure that you were all right—and far away from this mess."

There was a stifling suspension flung over the conference room. The Chief adapted to it.

"Everyone out. We'll collect statements from these three later."

They hung around, clinging to what was familiar and unfinished.

"Now! I mean it!"

Like a shepherd tending her flock, including the borrowed vice cops and the government agents, Vick corralled each principal figure in the room, leaving herself to shut the door at her back. She had a long enough glance inside, to see the good work she and her detectives—one of them borrowed, too—had done. Long enough to see JP Laramie hug Jason, and the swooping gesture that brought Avery into the same affection. A dulcet "My boys, my boys…" was heard from the old man. Pricks and wetness damaged Vick's sight and sent her scurrying into her office to deal with senseless logistics.

Ahead of his ream of friends, as well as the one person in the station related to him, Carlton found Shawn in the video room. It was where Shawn went when he wanted to be alone, if the conference room was full or there was a tremendous, full-moon buzz around the station. Its one window, its one door, its one ventilation shaft, and its four walls of cement blocks made it quiet—and dark, as he noted then for the first time, if the lights weren't on. At the narrow table, used to label tapes, data cards or disks, Shawn had his head resting on his palm, and pretended, through some gallant effort or intense sleepiness, not to see Carlton sit down. He waited out the moment, aware of it—the choice to do something or not was up to Carlton—but he loved the anticipation. It seemed now that he no longer supposed Lassiter's next move. Everything came as a surprise. He couldn't hide a smile of satisfaction when a hand reached out to brush fingers lightly through his hair, over his ear, and drift away to leave a rousing thrill.

"Daisies in a meadow, after all?" Shawn asked.

"Yeah. Daisies in a meadow."

"A sunshiny one?"

"I don't know. Maybe more like a sunrise."

"Ah, good—good enough. That holds a lot more promise. It's better to know the sunrise is coming than to have it over with all at once. Thank God. I couldn't have stood it if it wasn't true. Imagine if I'd been wrong. It would've meant that JP Laramie hated his son that much."

"How—how did you know he didn't?"

"Everyone has a father, Lassie, in some form or another. The biggest clue," he'd shut his eyes again and wished someone would come along and offer to take him home, "was when I read that Jason's father hadn't contacted the police when he went missing. It was his cousin. Who, as you know, works in a tier just below the CEO of Laramie Industries, and about the same age as Jason, and would've been in JP Laramie's confidence as well as Jason's. Like Max Van Weyl. Shame about Van Weyl. But you know a guy who wears a man-thong to swim in is probably just a bit vain."

"So none of this deduction was done by psychicness, huh?"

"Not really. A little, here and there. Mostly straight-up detective work, pure and unadulterated. Unlike Chico Ramone's vodka."

"That bottle of Grey Goose will be covered in Summer Preacher's fingerprints."

"I don't doubt it. But, honestly," Shawn moved, rubbed an eye, and let his forehead rest on Lassiter's shoulder, to the result of nothing, "I won't be able to hear Lady Gaga and Justin Timberlake ever again without seeing what I saw."

"Proves that you're not psychic, you know, or you wouldn't have opened that door."

"I can't see everything, Lassie. Especially stuff that's behind closed doors. Or sometimes right in front of me." Shawn was in the process of awareness then, that Lassie shifted, that something was going to happen—but it was all sabotaged by his best friend, who also wielded no power to see what went on behind a closed door.

Gus halted as soon as he took an automatic step inside. "Sorry," he said, not sure what he'd caught but that it was profound and most definitely not something he was ready to see. He sized up Lassiter as the detective walked by him, on his way out, presumably to get Shawn another cup of tea, since he'd taken with him the emptied mug. Gus shut the door after him.

"Shawn—"

"How'd you find me in here? It's, like, my sanctuary, dude. The way the men's room is sacred to you and your bodily trysts."

"You always come in here."

"Do I? Huh."

"You told me once that it was like the tree house of the police station."

"That's true. It is. Remind me to requisition a hammock for in here. Tell me, how do you think we can set up a tire swing in here? I'm thinking over in this corner."

"Shawn."

"All right. We'll work that out later."

"Your dad asked me to see if you needed a ride home. He said Lassiter might take you, but he's kind of busy right now. They're going to be up to their throats in paperwork for the next month. You should go home, you know. The last time you looked this awful was when we were going to give our Shakespeare presentation."

"In the ninth grade? That long ago? Really? I must look like—"

"You look awful. Like Rupert Friend on a bender."

"Ugh. There was definitely an Oscar the Grouch green to my face the last time I was in the bathroom. I'd give anything for Rupert's cheekbones, though."

"I hear that. But I don't even think being mysteriously in love with Lassiter is going to help you now."

Shawn snickered noiselessly. "I suppose not. Let me talk to the Chief and make sure I can go. Do you want to stop and get something to eat?"

"And risk you throwing up in my car? I don't think so! I'll get some drive-thru for you, though, if something actually sounds good to you."

"My cousin Denise's chicken soup."

"You'll have to go all the way to the backwoods of Indiana for that."

"Yeah, don't remind me. And don't ever let anyone say you haven't a good memory behind your exquisite coconut head."

Shawn steered through the station, close to Gus yet steps behind. He was going to have to drag behind the rest of the fast-paced world, and get used to it, for a couple of weeks yet. It would take that long to get over the infection, with the help of fresh air, sleep and medicine—and probably more sleep and more fresh air—loads of it, Indiana-style. He saw Lassiter at his desk, JP Laramie in the nearby guest chair. Juliet, Jason, Avery and Officer Tyas were having an information colloquium. The Chief was in her office, unwrapping a Werther's, when Shawn and Gus entered.

She gave Shawn a sensitive grin, aware that his return smile was feeble and half its usual size. From the smattering of papers on her desk, she found a blue and white slip and turned it over to him. "As always, thank you for your work, Mr. Spencer. Now get out of here. I don't want to see you again for at least a week." She gave a mild bow to Shawn's attendant. "Mr. Guster, good day to you as well."

"Call me if there's a dead body," Shawn muttered on his way out. He heard the Chief's vivid retort, but was still glaring at the paycheck's exorbitant amount. Rather concerned, he rotated back and entered the office, pointing to the check. "I think you might've—"

"Goodbye, Mr. Spencer."

Bemused, he was tugged away by Gus. Nearer the exit, where the overhang dripped and the wisteria plant glowed softly under its collected droplets, Gus grabbed a corner of the check to see its contents.

"Dang, Shawn!" Gus gave a shake of his head as his stroll out the doors claimed an annoyed sense of arrogance. "That's just the way. She gives you a raise when I'm not around to help you solve this case."

"I didn't really solve it, though."

"How do you figure that? Seems like you worked pretty hard on it to me."

"Maybe it's pity money for having to see Summer Preacher—"

"Please, don't get _NYPD Blue_ graphic on me."

"No, I just mean—the pieces would've fallen into place even if I hadn't been around."

"Maybe—in about five years. Don't be hard on yourself."

"Gus! Don't be the lollipop I dropped behind your dryer three years ago. Am I ever hard on myself?"

"You've earned it, that's what I mean."

"I did think Avery Tree was a stripper, though. That's got to count against me."

"With his body build? Are you kidding? Anyone would've thought that. And do you honestly think Jason would've had such a heartfelt reunion with his father if you hadn't stepped in? It might've taken them years to say anything to one another. And who else would've figured out that the guy at the Club pretending to be the bouncer was actually the head of a drug cartel? Just appreciate the good that you've done. Let the other stuff go. I'm over here."

He had to pinch Shawn at the elbow to lead them towards the east parking lot. He saw soon enough that Shawn hadn't folded up the check, that it was slowly deteriorating as it gathered raindrops. Gus grabbed it and shoved it in Shawn's coat pocket.

Inside the Echo, Gus didn't know which direction to take Shawn. His expectant look was met with a sigh he later described to Juliet as "lovesick, sick, and also a little forlorn." Shawn decided to be taken to the laundry basket. It was time, and he couldn't put it off another day.

They made a stop at a deli to grab Shawn some soup, and Gus hung around Mee Mee's until he was sure of Shawn's comfort, that Shawn would really stay in bed the rest of the day. He'd overtaxed himself in the worry department, but Shawn had eaten his soup, had a cup of tea and a glass of water beside the bed, and was slipping into sleep by the time Gus left.

When Shawn had heard Gus lock the door—he was the only other person who _knew_ he owned a key—he slid a hand beneath the pillow and brought out an envelope. He'd buried it there a couple of days ago, but its contents hadn't once left his mind. Except—well, there were times that it had left his mind. He grimaced, thinking about Lassie, about Summer Preacher—an image that faded into the picture of Jason, Avery and Joseph Peter Laramie happily together again.

The letter in the envelope held the promise of a reunion of a different sort for Shawn. It wouldn't bring him a daisies-in-the-meadow kind of ending, but maybe it would resemble what Lassie had alluded to: a sunrise on a pretty field: the hope of something better.

He turned his phone off. Turned off the light. He listened to the rain, letting it put him to sleep. When he woke, his place was doused in night's graces, the shushed hiss of cars wheeling down a wet street, headlights streaming, streetlights stationary, the chewing on the inside of the walls that was Masset the Mouse, always heard but never seen.

His apartment glowed softly when he put the lamp back on. Quickly, he changed clothes, fetched a satchel from inside his closet, and started contributing to its contents. At last, he grabbed the letter from its hallowed place, looked at it one more time as though to be certain of its realness, then, as assured as he was going to get, shoved it ingloriously into the cramped satchel. With the bag on the floor beside the door, Shawn rushed to make his bed, set things in some order, and did a final parade to make sure he had everything he wanted. Lastly, he signed the check from the Chief, wrote "For Deposit Only" below his signature, and rolled it up in a piece of paper from his notebook. On it, he wrote "Gus: For Psych Expenses" and left it on the end of his bed. Gus would come around in a couple of days, perhaps even tomorrow morning, and be astonished to find it.

He stood at the exit to give the laundry basket a lasting appraisal, to admire the work he'd put forth to clean it up before leaving. But he heard the damn mouse again. He set his jaw and grabbed a crippled back of potato chips, opened it, and let it fall to the ground.

"There, Masset, knock yourself out."

It was fitting that he actually remembered to lock the door, considering he had no idea when he'd be return, and his mind was on a thousand other things.

.


	10. Part the Tenth

Part the Tenth

-x-

Plenty of sunshine gushed through every east-facing window of Lassiter's living room. One beam had enough impudence and audacity to grapple the end of the beige armchair, angled into the corner, and lead Lassiter to examine that sitting space closely.

He hated that chair.

He'd always hated that chair.

There were only two known reasons for his still being in possession of it. One: If it wasn't so damn ugly it would actually look nice acting as a separator between the dining room and living room. Two: When he and Shawn had shopped for new furniture, Lassiter couldn't make up his mind between two different armchairs, and, Shawn, impatient and fed up, decided they wouldn't get either of them.

The chair was actually Victoria's. She'd wanted it back in the settlement, but he'd refused to let her have it.

It was so hideous. How had he ever clung to it? What had he been thinking? It was no wonder O'Hara had come in one day, the day she was putting the finishing touches on his new bedroom decor, and threw the apricot chenille throw over the hideous tan beast, and why they were always throwing coats and handbags and knapsacks over it and in it and on it.

He dialed a number into his phone, expecting no answer since it was so early in the morning. He'd been dressed to go the station for the last ten minutes. He'd slept twelve hours. He'd woken up feeling like he'd been hit by a truck—or at least slapped by a backhoe—and a little bit afraid of what the end of the day might bring. He loved solutions. He spent his entire work-week trying to fit solutions to felonies. Divorce had seemed like a solution. Getting rid of the chair seemed like a solution. He didn't know what kind of ending he wanted with Shawn, hence the abject terror.

To his surprise, Victoria answered. They were now so downright civil to one another.

"I want to give you that chair," he blurted out after all the cordial stuff was out of the way.

"What chair? Not the tan one?"

"You can come by later and pick it up, if you want."

"I'm on my way out the door now, and I'm going out of town this weekend."

"Oh."

But she had a solution of her own. "It's seven-thirty-five. It'll be five more minutes or so before you leave for the station. If you can delay a few minutes, Carlton, I'll come over now and pick it up."

"I'll wait."

He was willing to break his strict routine. Victoria wondered about it during the drive to his house. A cute little place. Stucco and lush gardens and big windows. She'd been around a few times to grab something or another that he was suddenly willing to part with. She never thought she'd be visiting on account of the tan chair. It had become the bane of Carlton's existence, the Yggdrasil of his life. Like most people familiar with the house, Victoria went to the back door and rapped the tips of her keys on the screen's edge. He told her to come in, and she noticed the house smelled of Carlton's aftershave, his coffee, his toast, smells that had come to define mornings for her. She noticed, too, a set of flip-flops under the bistro table, a leather jacket that clearly wasn't Carlton's, but supposed she knew to whom those articles belonged. Every tenth word out of Carlton's mouth, for the last three years, had been "Shawn."

"Are you sure you're willing to part with it?"

He cleared away the articles, the apricot throw and, to his horror, one of Shawn's socks, that he quickly shoved between the sofa's cushion and armrest, hoping Victoria had been too distracted to see it.

"You can have it with my blessing."

"Well, did you pee on it or something?"

He laughed, assured by his own understanding of Victoria that she'd meant it to be funny, not as an insinuation. Once upon a time, he would've heard only the insinuation. "No. I even had it cleaned a few months ago. Not that it helped it much. I think it's just time to let you have it."

He offered to carry it out to the crossover vehicle she'd parked behind his car. The door into the carport was by far the widest and newest of the house, and Victoria held it open while he shimmied the chair through. She was opening the trunk when a question nearly shocked Carlton into dropping the burden.

"How is Shawn, anyway?"

She must've seen the sock, but he gaped at her before adjusting the chair to heave it into the rear space.

"I saw his shoes under the table. The jacket, too."

"Oh, I never think to look under the table." He used his back to push the chair as far into the trunk as it would go, already overheated from exertion and now hot from embarrassment. "I guess he's fine. I don't know. He has a—sinus infection."

She shut the trunk door, smiling at him, her dark eyes squinting against the fresh peachy sunlight. "Did you tell him about Arturo yet?"

"I was going to."

"But you didn't."

"I didn't expect you to harass me into it."

"You forget that I know a whole lot about you. Practically everything."

"It brings me joy to tell you you're wrong, Victoria: I didn't forget. And you seem to know things about me that I didn't even know."

"Shawn ought to know those things, too. The good, the bad, the ugly," she poked him in the belly, over his tie, "and all the filling between."

"How do you know that he can—"

"Make you happy? If I'd left my shoes under the dining room table, you'd have gone after me with a meat cleaver."

"That's an exaggeration."

"But if you trim down the exaggeration, you have the truth." She paused, giving him a loving tap at the cheek. "Don't you?" She let him think about it while going to the driver's side door. "Thanks for the chair."

She kissed her fingers and waved to him on the way out of the driveway. He brooded for a moment, watching his lonely shadow graze across the dewy grass. Shawn's sandals were conspicuous beneath the table, where he'd often sat, ruminating on the details of a case, loose enough in Lassiter's house to strip his feet bare, to borrow Lassiter's clothes, to take a bath. Although, if Shawn were smart, and Lassiter suspected he was, Shawn wouldn't take a bath there ever again.

He went into the nautically themed guest room, to the small bookshelf. For a second, he examined the name scribed in the upper corner just inside the cover, the date and year beneath, as though it had belonged to someone a long time removed from the present. The Russian Lit book was heavy and landed with a thump, a restless clap of its pages, in the passenger's seat of his car.

The next three hours were too compressed and busy for him to think about it, except to notice that Shawn hadn't come in, that Henry Spencer hadn't, either. O'Hara told him not to worry about Shawn. "He's probably at home, sleeping, or in a drugged-out comatose state. You can call him later. But right now the Chief wants to see us."

The death of Van Weyl needed to be sutured up and finished, which meant talking to Joseph Peter Laramie, with Jason, with Avery, with employees from the Tanglevine Club off and on throughout the morning. Vice was on hand, too, to offer what they knew. The FBI, to their disdain, had come in when they'd learned Avery Tree was involved, and were disgruntled when they'd learned that their potential fink had gotten cocky, and then gotten himself murdered. By one-thirty, interviews had ended, and the deluge of paperwork began. Lassiter stood with O'Hara outside the conference room. She blew up her wispy bangs as if saluting the long hours they were about to put into tying up the case. She'd agreed ahead of time to finalize Summer Preacher's suicide and Chico Ramone's poisoning, while Lassiter took what remained of Van Weyl's case.

Their work found an hour delay when Laramie offered to take the two of them to lunch, along with Jason and Avery. Juliet didn't want to do without the opportunity, and she managed to talk Lassiter into it. He supplied them with a place to eat, Cafe Del Sol, and passed an enjoyable time, otherwise conscious that his phone hadn't rung, that he kept checking to see if Shawn had called.

"Can I just ask," Juliet started, after a final sip of soda, "what is your real name?"

"O'Hara," Carlton said, signaling that the question was inappropriate.

Avery no longer thought it was. He smiled and laughed mildly, bringing to life his smothering cuteness. "I don't mind answering. If Ramone's dead, I'll be pretty safe now." A brief glance was given to Detective Lassiter, but he was looking at Detective O'Hara while responding. "It's Sean. But—S-e-a-n. Not the way Shawn," again he looked at Lassiter, "your Shawn, spells it."

"Ah," Juliet grinned, "Sean—Sean to Avery—Sean Avery. I get it."

"I thought you would," Avery replied.

"Who's Sean Avery?"

"Okay, Carlton, you need to watch more ESPN. Or the NHL Network. Or Versus. Something."

"He's a winger for the New York Rangers," Jason said.

"And talks about himself in third person," added Avery.

"Usually when he's threatening to beat up homophobes," appended Jason.

"Rangers," Carlton drew out the word, as he had a habit of doing while thinking too hard. "That's hockey, right?"

"_Anyway_," Juliet returned to the older conversation, the one before another sports-related interruption that made Lassiter wish Gus or Shawn had been around to share his misery, "what are the two of you going to do now you're free again?"

They returned to New York City, in Joseph Laramie's private jet, later that afternoon. But not before JP Laramie penned a check to give to Chief Vick. "Divide it up how you want. Retirement fund. United Way. Whatever," he'd said. "And maybe give a little to that psychic detective of yours. He's really a mastermind, something special." Vick hadn't any reply but to say she couldn't disagree—it was undeniable that Shawn was indeed something special—and stuttered out her thanks.

Carlton worked diligently the rest of the day. And conspicuously, too, apparently, since every once in a while he caught O'Hara analyzing him from across the way. Fed up with her surreptitious looks and eyes that quickly darted down every time he caught her at it, he stormed to the end of her desk.

"What is it? What?"

"It's—I—nothing." She smashed her lips together, and when she smiled her gloss was brighter, her eyes imploring. "I thought you might've gotten a little lunch on your tie, that's all. But, now you're here, and I see it's just a piece of lint." She mimed taking off a fuzz from the middle of his blue neckwear, and disposing of it to the side. "There. All better."

He was rather sure there'd been nothing on his tie, but he felt messed up, had a headache, and wondered if sinus infections from Shawn were as contagious as his displays of affection. "I'm going home," he announced to O'Hara.

She stacked papers together. "Well, have a nice trip."

Her non sequitur made no sense to him until later. He passed it off as her brain being as tired as his.

At home, he had nothing to do but lounge on the couch, rolled up into a pill-bug shape, and stare thoughtfully at the shoes under the table. At seven, he gave in to the ponderous feelings and dialed Shawn's phone. Every ring was like an arrow into Carlton. "Shawn," he said after the bleat to announce voicemail, "where are you? Are you—feeling better? Call me when you get this. If you're still conked out, don't bother. I'll try to reach you again tomorrow. Also, um—I wanted to tell you that Jason and Avery left today with JP Laramie. O'Hara has their e-mail addresses and phone numbers for you, because they want to keep in touch with you. That's all, I guess. Hope you're getting better. Goodnight."

He plowed around the house, alternately cleaning, flipping through magazines, through cable television. Worn out and insecure, surely by something greater than Shawn's abrupt absence throughout the day, he fell asleep in his clothes, and woke at dawn. His first instinct was to check to see if Shawn had called, if he'd somehow managed to sleep through the ringing mobile. But he'd missed nothing.

The morning went through an atypical routine. His shower was longer than average, which he owed to a thorough contemplation of what he'd say to the Chief when he stepped into the station. It was better to do it immediately, have it over with—and just out of the way. He had to count for the unforeseen variables throughout the day, too. He didn't know what they were, hence why he'd titled them Unforeseen—but he knew they lurked.

The first blaring alarm to knock about inside his mind was realizing that his request to Chief Vick would be seen as—unusual. Aware of it, his palms began to sweat and he paced outside her door, waiting for her to get off the phone. He was too unaware of her conversation to hear that she'd cut it short in order to convene with him. Beckoned inside, Lassiter fixed a stare at the desk rim, unable to regard her but for scant seconds. How could he be such a coward? He knew officers in the precinct had done it before. Dobson, the gentle fool of the station, had done it for his significant other. Why couldn't Detective Lassiter?

He exclaimed it in slurs, stoppages and nervous squeaks. "I need to put someone—I—Shawn—on my—the—benefits. He doesn't have health insurance, and I—" Now what was he supposed to say? The worst was over. At least Vick deigned to smile at him, a hint of sweetness and understanding in it.

"I'll have a new package for you to fill out on your desk by noon."

"Thanks," he said, and exited wondering what he'd been so worried about in the first place. The package was brought up from Human Resources within the hour. Lassiter flipped through it, meticulously marking, with sticky notes, the few places that Shawn had to sign. That's when he began to wonder where in the hell Shawn was, why his call hadn't been returned—and if he should be a little more worried.

"Has Gus talked to Shawn at all that you've heard?" He lumbered into the guest chair next to O'Hara's desk. They were still up to their elbows in paperwork—primping, faxing, copying, filing—and O'Hara was still fiendishly checking her NFL news ticker.

"H'mm? Oh," she comprehended what he'd asked, her brow knitting in the middle, "no. He hasn't. Now that you've mentioned it." As she'd precluded, Lassiter became overly concerned, and decided to skip out for an early "lunch." She saw him grab an envelope, thick and heavy with papers, before he left. Part of her wished she'd offered to go with him, and a part of her was glad to leave it in his hands. He could navigate through his own emotions much more effectively if he didn't have an audience. Shawn, meanwhile, seemed to require an audience to support his feelings.

-x-

Shawn's laundry basket appeared to be empty, as much as Lassiter could see through the windows. Why didn't he have a key? Why, of all the times in the past, Shawn chose then to lock the door? Shawn had a key to _his_ place. It occurred to him that he should've demanded the key back—or demanded reciprocity from Shawn: a key for a key. It's what people did. If Shawn was going to leave shoes and socks and shirts around his place, a key to his apartment certainly equaled that.

Then he knew that Shawn Spencer had a different method of doing things. How had Shawn gotten a key to his place? He'd taken it without asking. He'd copied it without asking.

What was to stop Shawn from—?

Lassiter pulled out his keys. He hardly ever looked at them closely from day to day. He put them in the car ignition. He laid them in the bowl on the desk when he walked in the door at night, and picked them up blindly on his way out. Of course he never really looked at them. So, when he held up an unfamiliar, shiny specimen of nickel, he wasn't surprised. When he slipped it into the bolt lock at Mee Mee's, cranked it to the right, and the door opened, he wasn't surprised. Not seeing a trace of Shawn Spencer inside—that was the surprise.

He went to the second authority on All Things Shawn Spencer. For a moment, Lassiter stalled on the front porch of Henry Spencer's house, his hand raised to knock, but wondered what he would say. The same nervousness had plagued him before his brief chat with the Chief that morning, and maybe he'd find as little to worry about when talking to Henry. As he was about to knock, the door whooshed open. The sullen expression from Henry suggested expectation. His grand, bowing pose let Lassiter know he was welcome inside.

"Do you want a sandwich, Carlton? Something to drink? I made some lemonade."

Lassiter decided to dispense with the pleasantries and, when it came to Shawn, exhibit the same amount of bravery Shawn had lately showed him. "I don't want anything, thanks, Henry. But I do want to know where Shawn is."

Henry sat down on the sofa, forcing Lassiter to find the nearest comfortable spot, faraway enough to be comfortable, close enough to invite confidence. He was terribly afraid that Henry would ask him why—why he wanted so desperately to know where Shawn was that he'd show up at the door in the middle of a Friday afternoon. Lassiter was more terrified of being asked than saying the answer.

Into the contortions of quiet—the chirping sparrows, the wind caressing the trees—Lassiter resumed where he'd unintentionally left off.

"If you don't know where he is, maybe you know when—or if—he's coming back. Do you?"

It wasn't like Henry to give up information without acquiring something in return. "Are you asking as a detective? Did Gus file a missing persons report?"

"I have some papers I want Shawn to sign. In Shawn's case, probably the sooner the better with these. Before he gets himself hurt. Or comes down with another infection."

"You'll have a long way to go to get him to sign something."

"Meaning—what, exactly? I noticed his bike was gone. Is he healthy enough to ride anywhere?"

"I tried to tell him not to go, but he wouldn't listen to me. Plus, he has this crazy idea that his uncle's place is sort of like a—well, a haven. A Mecca of his childhood shoved into southern Indiana."

Lassiter processed this—Indiana—his uncle's place. It'd been mentioned two days before. Then he imagined Shawn on the Norton—going all the way to Indiana by himself. The notion fully repulsed. "What the hell is he going out there for?"

"You'd do better finding that out from him," Henry said, edging as many insinuations into the sentence as he could.

"He won't answer his phone."

Henry needed a few seconds to respond. He was writing on a scrap piece of paper, and shoved it in the breast pocket of Lassiter's coat when he'd finished. He remembered the conversation he'd had with O'Hara on the way to the airport—the questions he'd asked received tiny, vague answers, with questions of her own thrown back to him. But, under it all, between the phrases and the queries, what he'd seen and what intuition told him, he understood.

"That wasn't what I meant. Of course he's not going to answer his phone. He's probably in the middle of Colorado right now. I'm not really much help. But I can tell you that his ETA isn't until late in the morning on Sunday. Now, if that's all, Carlton, I've got some weeds to pull since it's finally stopped raining long enough for me to get out there."

It was all very strange. Carlton sat in his car, the sun beating in on him, and processed what he could. Shawn. In Indiana. Why? And Henry being both helpful and aloof. He smoothed the rucked piece of paper taken from his pocket. Each line of it read like a book title.

_The Willow Place.  
Barrel Creek, Indiana.  
Between Routes 60 and 111.  
Everyone in town knows it.  
Ask if you get lost._

Carlton thought he might be crazy. He was pretty sure Henry Spencer had gone crazy. Only a crazy man would expect him to drop everything and go to Indiana. It was absurd. It was out of the question.

But he started the car, and saw that, without really aware of it, he'd dropped the packet of papers for Shawn to sign on top of the old college book he wanted Shawn to look at. Everything in his life was attached to Shawn. Everything he knew spider-webbed from Shawn. It was time, Lassiter supposed, that he did something about it.

Besides, he kind of liked flip-flops under the table, an extra towel in the bathroom, another body in bed in the morning, and someone who'd pointlessly bicker with him.

-x-

As a child, roughly eight though it couldn't be remembered as steadily anymore, Shawn had been introduced to what his mother's folks called "**The Willow Place**." Forevermore and a day Shawn thought of it like that, quoted, in bold, just as the name of it was etched into the big sandstone rock at the edge of the gravel drive. The Willow Place had one of those single-lane roads leading far, far off the main avenue, about a quarter of a mile, made all the more flossy and fantastic by the two rows of weeping willows on either side. Their tendrils were fiercely thick, and lovingly touched the tops of the grass. Next to their meaty, textured trunks ran a wooden rail fence stained "maple gold" that stood out against the emerald expanse. Shawn loved the drive. It gave him a secret thrill, like he was entering a palatial garden where nobody knew him, and the only creatures behind the veiling willows were those that respected his want of aloneness. He paused the Norton at the end of the drive, took off his helmet just to listen to the croaks rising from the reed-wreathed pond, the cicadas, the crickets, the wild, nasal songs of Midwestern birds. A certain warmness tangled up his heart, and he sighed, aching to share what he felt but no longer sure with whom. He would be alone at The Willow Place, but too exhausted to be more than a trifle heartsick—and never, he assumed, would he be homesick for anything that didn't include Carlton.

But Barrel Creek the "city" was a good eight miles northeast, while the nearest neighbors were a decent hike "up road." If one wanted fun and games, one had to travel all the way to New Albany, nestled along the wavy shores of the great Ohio River—or drive a couple hours to Cincinnati, or another two hours up to Indianapolis. Yet Barrel Creek boasted its own supply of "goodie shops." A grocery, a Subway, a liquor store, an inn/restaurant, a village park—but not much else.

Yet it was more like home to him, in a lot of ways, than Santa Barbara.

After slow flight up the long, dusty lane and parking his bike, Shawn stared into the brick facade of the high-peaked colonial revival. It was no two-story slouch of a house, but three stories of working shutters, cranberry in color, to each bright, latticed window. The square front porch stuck out of the front, its sharpness softened by perfect landscaping and huge Boston ferns hung in the spaces between pillars. The Willow Place had always been a dominant figure in the minds of Barrel Creek citizens throughout generations, and Shawn marveled that some ancestors of his had been motivated enough to build it—and then stupid enough to lose in in the 1940's. But then came Uncle Fenz, money he had saved up his whole life so that, if the chance came, he could buy The Willow Place back. His chance came in the late 70's, when the old owner died, the house and its 110 acres fell to the care of the bank. Uncle Fenz, with the help of some other Humphreys, finalized the purchase, sold off a big hunk of land to the next farm over, and used the money accrued from the sale to remodel the place. Thirty-plus years later, there it rested in its original, mighty splendor, after Uncle Fenz had done most of the work himself, with the help of a few handy friends, a few of his cousins. Now ten of the remaining twenty-one acres were rented to the Karells, the nearest neighbors, to graze their fair-winning cows. Shawn saw the blue-ribbon bovines before hoisting himself upon the porch, there in the far side field, multi-colored lumps from buff to black.

He entered the house, feeling as though he ought to be starring in a Charles Dickens film, surrounded by mid-1800's opulence in the scrollwork of the grand staircase, the tiny tiles that made up the foyer floor, even the antique hat rack, and plant stand festooned in a portly vase that disgorged a splash of vibrant, shockingly real gladiolas amid frothy greenery. It was so different than the half-finished abode last seen almost fifteen years ago. Then, the walls were not often covered, just bare to the bones, and the tile floor was broken in places—and every room of the house seemed dingy and desecrated.

Shawn left his bag and entered a pleasant peregrination around the lower level. He could travel unimpeded from the foyer, to the left which was the "parlor," then to the dining room in the back corner, then the kitchen (where he lingered to study its quaint grandness and felt that he might wind up eating coarse Scotch porridge and reading Robert Burns at the huge family table); and from there it was the old summer kitchen turned into the least formal room of the house with a big-screen LCD television, Cincinnati Reds memorabilia, and the house's only phone extension, and finally back to the "front study." This, Shawn thought, had been his indoor haven when he was little, and it hadn't changed very much despite thirty years of ongoing repairs. It was what anyone might've called a library. Bookshelves lined the walls, some of them crammed to bursting point, and others content to hold antiques held sacred by ancestral Humphreys. Here, a red tartan couch and matching green sitting chair, among other sitting places, including a cushioned window well that looked to the lane of willows, invited visitors and ilk to rest awhile after a day's labor. Shawn didn't go to The Willow Place believing he'd be spending his time reading, and it surprised him to find he read the spines of the books readily enough, and took down 1960's paperback editions of Tom Sawyer and James Bond, with their musty pages toasty brown but friendly. He left them on a round, spindle-legged tea table, and congregated with ghosts in the kitchen.

It was a capacious place, its roughly hewed beams showing in the ceiling, and from the beams dangled bundles of herbs taken from storage in the attic, where the new harvest was drying, and bundles of onions, garlic cloves, an old brass lantern, one of those things that puts out candle flames that Shawn didn't know the proper name of, and all sorts of cottony cobwebs. A wide plant window was over the sink, filled with a few philodendrons but no specimen quite like Brad—and Shawn found himself digging his fingertips into his crossed arms to keep from sighing. There was a great view of the enormous back porch, and the breathtaking tableau of woods and hills behind it, out the French doors. The house had been shut up since Uncle Fenz had left that morning, though Shawn lacked Gus's Super Smeller and Magic Head, he didn't detect much of a mildewy, closed-up odor.

As Shawn unlatched the doors, the air, touched by an aster perfume, floated in, lifted the cobwebs, and scurried some curled, dried leaves across the shiny hardwood floor.

Content at heart, glad that the journey had rewarded him, Shawn went upstairs. Old Ancestor Humphrey—Shawn didn't know his name but thought it must be something beautifully, unforgivably Old Country, like Seamus or Kermit—had built the place with his family money, and had built it with servants in mind. Consequently, the "attic" or third story was where the servants, the cook and the housekeepers, had slept; and, consequently, it had a narrow staircase leading up to it in the far back corner of the second story, a mere ninety-degree turn from the even narrower and slightly curved staircase that opened in the kitchen. Meticulously, and not particularly in a hurry since he had another month or two to do whatever he wanted, Shawn opened the windows on the second floor. Some, he noted, Uncle Fenz had left hanging open. His uncle being a great prognosticator of weather—he could read clouds and cows perfectly—this didn't alarm Shawn.

He saw his guest room—it had not changed much either. Still papered in pale, spring-time yellow stripes on an ivory background, still bursting with antique furniture that the old Humphreys had used, still with the old brass double bed with swan busts sloping downward at each corner, and still with the same old quilt made of hand-pieced octagons that, as Uncle Fenz said, his great-grandmother had worked on just before she died.

Of course, every one of the Humphreys in Barrel Creek believed The Willow Place "had spirits." And Shawn, when he'd been a boy, relished in the gruesome tales of untimely deaths. He'd believed that Anabel Cosgrove, one of the young brides of The Willow Place, still walked across the "back slope" behind the big barn, looking for the husband who had vanished without a trace in the middle of a terrible hail storm. He'd believed too in the creepy tales his third cousins Denise and Derrick, her brother, had made up—or had heard from other relatives—about the family graveyard, now hidden in a bunch of locust trees, where the two dead child siblings still played "jack stones" and tag during interlunar twilight hours. This was before Shawn turned skeptical against ghosts, couldn't believe in them any more than he could disprove their existence entirely. He believed in the paranormal but he loved even more the idea instilled in him by Jonathan Creek—that of "lateral logic." The logical was graspable, able to be spoken about; and if Shawn experienced the paranormal at all, it was a personal experience, sacred to himself and that was all, rather like revenge, hatred, or falling in love.

Returned to the kitchen, Shawn headed outside in the slanted back yard. The old wooden rail fence continued along the grazing field. Piled around it were enormous hollyhocks, sunflowers, and other old-time perennials. It seemed all that bloomed then did so ferociously. There were the daylilies crammed into every available place, some hardy coreopsis, and very daring black-eyed Susans. The rest of the flowers were native weeds, milkweeds and blazing stars and flashes of vibrant purple that were coneflowers. Giant clover had stopped blooming, but the white clover, dainty in the yard, hadn't—and was ravishingly perforated with yellow things that Shawn believed were dandelions. He never knew dandelions bloomed in any other time of year but spring.

He met some of the barn cats—five in all. Not feral creatures, exactly, but preferring their own company and that of the horses ahead of humans. He recited their names, having learned them by rote from Uncle Fenz's instructive letter. They were Weasel, Snooky, Peppermint, Pumpkin and Sunflower. Aside from Snooky, a lean gray tabby, the rest were color-coordinated with their names: Weasel was black, Peppermint was white, Pumpkin a dark orange, and Sunflower a paler, champagne orange with a downy white bib and plump white toes. Because Shawn liked her the least, her face was too pointed and her eyes were far too strange, Sunflower took an immediate liking to him. She paraded around after him during the remainder of the self-guided tour, and watched with amiable winks from the top of a fence post while Shawn entered the paddock to introduced himself to Jackson and Gideon. From what Uncle Fenz had written, Shawn was predisposed to like Gideon the best, the smaller, sadder horse rescued from a place that didn't love him.

But he found only Gideon in the outland, grazing and slapping his long, multi-colored tail against his fetlocks and cannon bones to rid them of flies. Though he came over when Shawn whistled for him and hailed him by name, it was more than obvious that Jackson wasn't around. Shawn checked his stall, walked the circumference of the paddock, the barn—and came to a halt once flinging open the barn door.

When did Uncle Fenz get a silver Chevrolet? Why had he gotten rid of the red Silverado that rivaled Henry Spencer's for miles and rust spots? A sticker stuck on the bumper caused Shawn to stoop, use a thumb to rub away the dirt upon it, then make him wonder what a rental car was doing in his uncle's barn. The contents of the letter he'd received a week ago contained a few possible explanations. Uncle Fenz had gone on a fishing trip to northern Minnesota, had planned to take his truck, his dog, and a few friends. Perhaps the rental car belonged to one of them. That did nothing to explain the missing horse.

He thought of going inside, going to the one phone in the entirety of the house, because there was no way his iPhone would work out there—at least he hoped it didn't—and call Sheriff Keeley about a possible stolen quadruped. Sheriff Keeley was a friend of Fenz Humphrey, and certainly would've remembered Shawn from his last stay in Barrel Creek, when he'd solved an old crime and outsmarted a would-be pig thief. Now those were the days! None of that international drug syndicate business. None of that walking in on women who'd killed themselves and left others to clean up the mess.

He rubbed a palm against his eye, where his sinus cavities continued to plague him, yet he'd felt, more than ever, than the three-day drive across the country had done more to heal his body than all the rest and all the antibiotics in the world—along with the herbal remedies of Lady Olga's that he'd actually remembered to bring. Plus, he loved sleeping in hotels. Going to bed early after snacking on goods from the vending machine, and rising to have for breakfast practically anything he wanted. And then the long, long roads of nothingness, doused in sunlight, that seemed to have no end. The roar of the Norton engine. The whistle of the wind around his helmet. That was the purest taste of freedom, if not a true way to run from the guilt and the consequences he'd acquired by darting out of Santa Barbara.

Sunflower rubbed on his ankles, twined in and out of them like some furry binding weed. "I'd pick you up," Shawn said, "it's just that I think you're kind of gross." But she stood on her back legs, dug her front claws high, high into his thigh, and he pitied her, scooped her up to her utter delight. "It's only because you're just so ugly I don't know how anyone can possibly love you." He scratched her ear, and she touched a paw to his chin, purring and, as he noted a second later, profusely drooling. "Great, an ugly cat with tarter control issues is my one true love. That figures."

Through the concentrated purring and outpouring of affection from Sunflower, Shawn ascertained a most unmistakable sound, that of horseshoes clanking against hard earth. He squinted down the lane, the runnel of namesake willows, and had to let go of the cat in order to shade his eyes, so he might better comprehend that a horse and rider were trotting down the lane. As the pair neared, the haze dropped off, leaving Shawn in no doubt that the horse was Jackson. He wasn't a white horse, exactly, but white with brown patches—or beige and brown after a good roll in a dirt pile. Suitable, anyway, for a chivalrous knight to ride. He had less of an explanation for the rider. As sure as he was that the horse was Jackson, Shawn was even more positive, by the increased speed of his heartbeat, that the rider was Lassie. In jeans. In a plaid shirt with his hirsute forearms hanging out. In a cowboy hat. To put a finer point upon it, _Shawn's_ cowboy hat that Uncle Fenz had kept for him the last fifteen years. It was too bewildering—too impossible. Shawn watched Lassie dismount, smoothly, cleanly, with just the slightest crunch of leather from the saddle. A little tempest of dust rose at the heels of his boots as he landed.

Shawn anticipated that one of three possible instances might then occur. The first being that Lassie would throw his arms around him and kiss him well into twilight hours. The second was that he would say something dumb, like "What are you doing here?" The third was that he would stand there, staring adoringly at Lassiter, and say absolutely nothing at all.

By the will of fate, by the gravity of astonishment, it was Option Three.

Lassiter looked at his wrist watch, looked at Shawn. "You're a couple of hours earlier than I thought you'd be. I took Jackson down to the store in town. It's nice being in a place with hitching posts outside the town shops. I thought you might want some food when you got in. More than beans and cornbread, anyway. How long have you been here?"

Shawn gulped, trying to bring a hint of moisture to a parched mouth. Lassiter gathered the facts, and smiled, pleased with the effortlessness.

"Why, Shawn, did I make you speechless? Me? Your uncle said this place was pretty miraculous. I didn't really believe him. Here, make yourself useful, if your arms work better than your mouth."

Shawn caught a saddlebag, heavy with a few stock items from the grocery, a quarter gallon of milk, a stalk of celery, a bottle of white wine were the first few items his eyes, which actually did work, unlike his vocal cords, saw as he traced Lassie's steps. Jackson was put into the paddock, but he gave Lassie plaintive looks, sad to have the ride over so soon. Lassiter patted his nose, received a thrumming from whiskery lips as a response. He hitched the other satchel higher onto his shoulder, pivoting around to grab Shawn's elbow in his empty hand. He thought it was better if he just start an explanation.

"Your dad sent me here."

It was not exactly the best opening sentence. Shawn blanched and nearly stumbled into the kitchen. A few items from the bag scattered on the floor. The mercifully placed braided rug saved the bottle of wine, but a banana acquired a new bruise. Carlton took off the hat, set it on a board of pegs with the nonchalance of someone who'd been there years, and knelt to help Shawn gather the rolling victuals.

"There were some phone calls made. Between your dad and your mom, then your mom and your uncle. But he's your _half_ great uncle, isn't he? Your mom tried to explain it to me but I really couldn't—there were way too many 'once removes,' and I gave up. I got here two days ago. Flew into Indianapolis."

The rental car. It was Carlton's. Shawn put the groceries, item by item, on the kitchen counter. Lassiter dutifully unpacked the other bag: butter, coffee, bread, a box of stuffing, a whole chicken, macaroni and cheese, hot dogs. Food, at least, made the situation far more real than it would've been. If, say, they were just two dumb idiots in love with one another, standing in a meadow dappled with sunflowers and dandelions, uttering affections and endearments. Lassiter left the groceries on the counter, occupied himself temporarily getting Shawn a glass of water. The faucet sputtered and gurgled: good old wells! But it was cold and satisfying and Shawn was grateful for the consideration. He drank the whole glass without a pause.

"You'd be surprised how easy something is to find, as long as you know what you're looking for," Carlton said. He ruminated on the layers attached to the phrase, and jerked himself into moving. "I have something for you. Something I want you to sign."

Shawn still hadn't spoken, unsure what to say, unsure how he should react. If Carlton had traveled twenty-two hundred miles, surely the reason for it had to be significant. Shawn handled the task of putting a few things away, the milk, butter and bottle of wine into the refrigerator, before Lassie returned. The floorboards creaked, as they always had, and dust bunnies in corners sparked to life and died when the temporary excitement ended. It occurred to Shawn's numb conscious mind that Uncle Fenz wasn't the greatest of housekeepers, that maybe he'd clean a little while he was there…

Lassiter gave him a bunch of papers.

Papers. Now that's romantic. Way to send a guy's heart pattering, Lassie.

"Let me get you a pen." He found a stash of pens, stuck in an old mug on the library desk.

Shawn took the pen, having no idea, still, what the heck he was staring at.

"I marked all the places for you to sign and—just go ahead and put the date on them. I can mail it in, if we're going to be here awhile, so they can get processed ASAP. I'll go out and take care of Jackson while you finish that up. I think it's going to storm in a bit. Sit down here." Lassiter pushed Shawn into a seat at the table. Shawn went, malleable, quiet. He fetched him another glass of water, set it within Shawn's reach, and looked back once he'd taken down the hat. With little in the way of thought, preferring to grasp spontaneity, Carlton zipped in, pecked Shawn somewhere that he hoped was his cheek, and dashed from the house.

The little chaste kiss brought Shawn around. He began to scan the papers, sipping the water, and spit it out again when it all configured in his feeble mind. Lassiter couldn't be serious.

"You're not serious about this, are you?"

Lassiter peeked around Jackson to an incensed Shawn Spencer standing on the paddock's bottom rail. He wielded the papers tightly in one hand, the pen in the other. Lassiter slid the saddle off Jackson.

"You can't go without health insurance. It's ridiculous."

"What if I told you I was quitting Psych? I'm not going to do it anymore. Then what would you say?"

"Well, first I would tell you to stop yelling at me, get your ass over that fence, and come talk to me like a civilized human being."

"I can't be civil to you right now. You're wearing my hat. It's very discombobulating, seeing another man wear my hat."

"Will you just get over here?"

Every inch of him screaming disobedience, Shawn refused to budge. He was furious—something he usually wasn't—and oddly humiliated. Finally, Lassiter capitulated, and stomped his way to the fence. Shawn's position on the bottom rail made him a whole eight inches taller, and Lassiter saw no other way to make them even but to step up on the rail, too. It was a good, sturdy fence, after all. His feet went between Shawn's, his hand beside one of Shawn's. He wrestled the hat from his crown and, as a consolation, stuck it on Shawn's head.

"Sign the damn papers, Spencer. Just think of what I went through to ask the Chief if I could add you in the first place."

Shawn hadn't thought of that, and, as he tried to picture it, felt his face blush. He didn't give in right away, but lobbed off the rail and strode into the garden. As he thought, Carlton followed him. Shawn was more than ready to fight it out, fatigue and confusion and all.

"You know, Lassie, at the risk of sounding a little too Adam Lambert with this statement, I gotta ask: What do you _want_ from me?"

Lassiter had prepared himself for this question, and, once he inhaled deeply, began a reason that his imagination had not rehearsed. But it was a true reason.

"The other day, I called Victoria and told her she could have the beige chair. The one by the dining room. I hate that chair. I finally decided it was time to let it go."

"What does that have to do with anything? I concede: It was an ugly chair. Congratulations. I'm glad your tastes have matured. Juliet will be proud. But what do you _want_, Lassie?"

He tried to wriggle free when Lassiter reached to claim him. He had a brief moment of absolute success, before the front of his shirt was crumpled up in Lassiter's fist, and the two of them were pinned, chest to chest. Shawn had promised he wouldn't say a thing, wouldn't instigate anything, that if anything happened it would have to be what Carlton wanted.

"I want you to come home with me. I want us to go back to the furniture store. I want us to pick out a new chair for the living room. Together. Why is that a difficult concept for you to grasp, Spencer?"

"Because I didn't know any of that until right this second." He endured a rush of emotions: elation and contentment and surprise. His intense look into Lassie's eyes dropped down to his mouth, wondering when in the hell he was going to kiss him, seal it, end the misery and begin the first part of the dream. But he hesitated, for one last smear to erase. "Are you sure about the benefits?"

"Oh, I'm very sure. Why aren't you?"

"Because there are a lot of people who'd consider it—oh, God, stop doing that—" He didn't know what Lassie was doing, but involved moistness and breathing along his neck, his ear. "I'm trying to think. I'm trying to be—rational. Very inappropriate words, I realize, from a psychic. But look at it from my perspective for a second, would you?" He set to work pawing Lassiter off of him, careened around the garden until he'd taken refuge behind the oak tree.

Lassiter didn't see anything but the brim of the black Stetson sticking out around the trunk. "All right. What do you want to know?"

"I want to know who Avery Tree reminded you of."

"I'm glad you asked that. You were right. It was someone that I went to college with."

"Both undergraduate and graduate studies?"

"Yes. Last year of undergraduate, and two years of graduate. His name was Arturo Kovalev."

"Weirdest name _ever_!"

"He was part Hispanic and part Russian. We lived together for a while. He died in Russia many years ago. He was—political. I met Victoria and—I'll tell you all about him. Whatever you want to know. Will you come out now? I feel ridiculous having a conversation with a tree."

"No," retorted Shawn, Curry-like. "One more question."

"Fine, go ahead. But if you ask me too many of these, I won't take you upstairs and—"

"Hey! Stop right there! I have a right to ask. You might not believe this, Lassie, given my arrogance, my handsome looks, my debonair style, but I'm really insecure about relationships. They hurt and they're painful and I really don't like them much. How do I know you really like me? That you'll—you'll be okay with us having fights about stupid things that we won't remember later—Votto _was_ safe at third and I don't care what you say—"

"He wasn't safe, Shawn. He was out by a mile!"

"Never mind. How do I know that you won't leave me when the thrill of being with another man's all dried up?"

"We've been fighting for so long that I've gotten used to it. Why would I want that to stop? Only now I would actually like us to kiss at the end of our fights and then forget they never happened."

"Well—since you put it that way. What if someone better comes along?"

"I could ask you the same question."

"Then I'd say that I don't want anyone else. There's no one better."

"How do you know that I don't believe the same thing about you, Shawn? I already know there's no one better than you for me. Not now. Not ever. Why else would I have come all the way out here just to have you sign a bunch of official documents?"

"You do realize that some couples see things like—like health insurance benefits for someone—about on par with long-term commitment, don't you?" Shawn puckered his mouth together at the silence preceding a response. "Lassie? Don't you know that?" He jumped at Lassie's sudden appearance next to him. He had his hat swept off, tossed aside, and was finally gathered into Carlton's arms.

"Yes, I know that, Spencer. I'm not asking us to pick out rings or anything."

"Just a chair."

"And maybe something for the yard."

"And maybe a little boy cat?"

"Don't push your luck. It's hard to believe you can be insecure about anything."

Shawn held up a hand, not meaning to delay the inevitable, but seeing the opportunity to joke. "I am not, however, the least bit insecure about my abilities to kiss or give you a really decent and heart-healthy romp in the—"

It was such a kiss that the wind blew strongly, the earth and air trembled, and a passionate fire claimed them. Being so enraptured, so fascinated with one another, it was difficult not to claw their way immediately through every layer of clothes, every stage that would follow. Shawn's thoughts tended to twist among the uncanny during the first flight of arduous compassion, until he caught himself living far outside the moment by worrying what would happen whenever they returned to Santa Barbara, then the sobering thought of what his dad would say, then the happier thought that Dad had sent Lassie out there to him—maybe for this very reason: to make out with him in the garden. It smelled heavenly of wild things, of roses and clover and winnowed tall grasses heated in the midday sun. Lassie's shoulders, the back of his neck, felt hot beneath his hands, and Lassie's breaths started feeling cool against his neck. He collected kisses, counting them up, then losing count altogether when the ferocity of their affection overwhelmed him.

They were sobered ungently by the unmistakable sound of papers sent into a tumble by the rising wind. Five minutes were spent chasing down the insurance documents, from one corner of the yard to the other. It was just as well, Shawn thought, that they return to the house. There was something disturbing in the Indiana afternoon. He saw a gross of clouds, black and massive, wafting on the northern horizon. He made Lassiter notice them, and, as the two of them spread out to ready Uncle Fenz's hobby farm for a storm, Shawn recognized that the next month to two months of his life would be like this.

As the blue sky covered itself in a thick gray boa, and drops of rain started to plop along the porch, Shawn pushed one of the French doors closed, leaving the other to brush the kitchen with fragrant fresh air.

"How long are you staying?" he asked Carlton, wondering if it was too soon, or just too inhumane, to sit on his lap, to practice that thing the kids called "canoodling." Shawn was as out of practice canoodling as Lassie. He'd nearly forgotten his question, with a splurge of lightning and thunder.

"About a month, maybe," came the murmured reply. "Think you can stand having me around that long?"

"If not, I've picked up a few handy clues, and I know there's a peat bog not far from here. They might not find your body for centuries. The real question is whether or not you can stand being away from work that long. A whole month! The mind boggles. Can you do it?" Shawn was happily tugged at a wrist, coaxed into sitting on Lassie's knees, and had his lips gently clasped.

"I think I can find enough to keep me busy."

-x-

"Shawn! It's about time you called!"

"Gus. Relax. I'm at my uncle's in Indiana."

"Uh-huh. And how did that happen?"

"It's a long story. I just wanted you to know that I'm here, and that I'm sorry I ditched you without saying anything."

"You had your reasons. And it's not like I didn't see it coming."

"_How_ did you see it coming?"

"You give off tells, Shawn. I've known you since we were five years old. You think I don't know the 'I'm going to run off now and do my own thing for a bit' signs when I see them?"

"Dude, that's amazing. You should write a book."

"I'm thinking about it. I still haven't figured out the ending yet."

"Me either. But you should put in something about me kissing Lassiter in a field of daisies. At sunrise. Well, that's the hyped-up version. The field was actually the backyard, with clover and dandelions, but there was thunder and lightning involved, for real."

"Is Lassiter with you?"

"He's asleep. I wouldn't want this rumored about the station, but he's quite a matchstick in bed."

"Shawn. Seriously. That's disturbing."

"You asked."

"I most certainly did not. I don't want that kind of imagery, thank you."

"The sheets are blue and white striped. He looks gorgeous. I'll take a picture and send it to you. It can be your new phone wallpaper."

"Will you shut up before I hang up on you?"

"There was this thunderstorm, too. Rain beating against the windows, the roof—ah, just imagine it, Gus."

"Really, really trying not to."

"We went on way beyond the thunderstorm. I'll probably be too sore to get out of bed for the next few days. Pity."

"That's it. I'm hanging up."

"You're not. You're a liar-filled Hersey bar with almonds. Why aren't you bombarding me with questions? Like, I don't know, like asking me why Lassie's here. Did you know?"

"I talked to your dad."

"Who talked to my mom."

"Who talked to your uncle."

"Let's end there. It could get very confusing if we go on."

"That's fine with me."

"Did you deposit the money I left you?"

"What money?"

"Don't play."

"Yes, I did. I paid a few bills, too. Why didn't you tell me we were having money problems? I had to reallocate some funds, but I've got it straightened out."

"That's a relief."

"For now. We might need to rethink a few of our unnecessary expenses."

"Don't talk so loudly about it if Jules is around."

"She's still at work. I'm in a restaurant having some coffee. There's a two-hour time zone difference, Shawn."

"I keep forgetting that. Is it two hours or three hours? You know what, never mind. I came down to the kitchen to get something to eat. Dude, what's good after-sex food, anyway? I don't remember. It's been too long."

"Menu might be a bit different in your and Lassiter's case. Try blueberry muffins. Or strawberries and wine."

"Oh! Oh! I can do that last one! But, seriously, strawberries aren't exactly man-food."

"Go out and shoot a rabbit, then."

"Gus, don't be the mole on Lassiter's thigh that's shaped like a lightbulb. That would take way too long."

"Try some cheese."

"There is cheese."

"And whipped cream."

"Can't do that one."

"Juliet likes gingersnaps after sex."

"Way too much info there, buddy."

"Excuse me, Mr. 'Lassie is lovely in sateen sheets.' When are you coming home?"

"October."

"October?"

"Lassie's going to be back sometime in the middle of September. I'll be back whenever Uncle returns from wandering the Badlands."

"It's the Boundary Waters, Shawn. The Badlands are in South Dakota. And October, really? Isn't your lease up on the laundry basket then?"

"Indeed it is. How about pineapple?"

"Too messy. The juice will get everywhere, Shawn. Rethink that if you're so fond of those picturesque sheets."

"Not so much the sheets as what's in the sheets."

"You're going to make me sorry I answered the phone, aren't you? All right. So what are you going to do? Sign a lease or move in with Lassiter?"

"Probably the latter. As soon as we pick out a new chair. And I'm thinking of getting a new rug for the front foyer area. Oh, and replace the one by the kitchen sink, too. I spilled tapioca on it once, and it just hasn't been the same since."

"I hope you'll be back in time to pack up your things, because there's no way I'm doing all of that for you."

"I will be. I swear it on Val Kilmer's grandmother's grave."

"You better hope the poor woman's already dead, Shawn."

"Well, if she isn't, or if she's a magical zombie, I still promise. Also, Gus, I have some good news. Great news, in fact."

"Let me guess: You're in love."

"Yes. But no. And not nearly so obvious."

"I give up. What?"

"I got Lassie to agree to play Trivial Pursuit."

"Wow, I guess he really is in love with you. You going to call me again later?"

"Tonight, maybe not. We have chores to do. Horses and cats to feed."

"Nothing quite like a farm. Flinging manure is a romantic past-time."

"But I'll definitely call tomorrow."

"I'll handle your cell phone bill next month. The money your dad gave me and Juliet to pay the overseas plan we got will cover our bill as well as yours. So don't worry about it. I'm really, really glad you called, Shawn. You scared me for a minute. But once Juliet told me that Lassiter was gone, too, and after I talked to your dad, well—I didn't worry so much."

"Maybe you can scrounge us up a case for when I get back."

"In October? Yeah, I'll work on that. I'll just ask some nice stranger if he'd kindly get himself murdered so we can have a case. Sure, Shawn."

"Could it hurt to ask?"

"It could hurt a lot when the guy gets murdered."

"Fair point. Well, I have man-food. I'm going with cheese, some legumes, and some spring water. I don't mean water in bottles, I mean water from the actual spring down the footpath in the woods. Have I mentioned yet how awesome it is here? But, alas, duty and manliness calls. I have to go, buddy."

"So do I. I have a wife I need to text message. And you have some eating to do."

"And more sex to have."

"I could've gone the whole rest of my life without hearing that."

"I know, but you didn't really mind hearing it. Thanks, Gus, for being the awesomest, bestest friend ever."

"I love you, too. Tell Lassiter I said hello. Well—tell him later. Like, tomorrow. See you in October."

-x-

Juliet found a text message waiting on her phone when she returned from fetching a bottle of juice. She sat down, calmly opened the juice, then read a message from her husband.

Everyone in the department wondered why Juliet O'Hara threw up her arms and shouted "YES!" so loudly that the whole station heard.

In her office, Chief Vick shook her head, grinning, aware, in her own omniscient way, why Detective O'Hara had displayed such unfettered joy.

-x-

The end.

-x-

Please see the link in my profile for a Reference List of References, if you're interested!

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